 50 How Mr. Pickwick sped upon his mission and how he was reinforced in the outset by a most unexpected auxiliary. The horses were put to punctually at a quarter before nine next morning, and Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller, having each taken his seat, the one inside and the other out, the postillion was duly directed to repair in the first instance to Mr. Bob Sawyer's house for the purpose of taking up Mr. Benjamin Allen. It was with feelings of no small astonishment when the carriage drew up before the door with the red lamp and the very legible inscription of Sawyer, late Nakamorf, that Mr. Pickwick saw, on popping his head out of the coach window, the boy in the gray livery very busily employed in putting up the shutters, the which, being an unusual and an unbusiness-like proceeding at that hour of the morning, at once suggested to his mind two inferences—the one that some good friend and patient of Mr. Bob Sawyer's was dead, the other that Mr. Bob Sawyer himself was bankrupt. What is the matter? said Mr. Pickwick to the boy. Nothing's the matter, sir, replied the boy, expanding his mouth to the whole breadth of his countenance. All right, all right! cried Bob Sawyer, suddenly appearing at the door with a small leather knapsack, limp and dirty in one hand, and a rough coat and shawl thrown over the other arm. I'm going, old fellow. You! exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. Yes, replied Bob Sawyer, and a regular expedition will make of it. Here, Sam, look out! Thus, briefly be speaking Mr. Weller's attention, Mr. Bob Sawyer jerked the leather knapsack into the dickey where it was immediately stowed away under the seat by Sam, who regarded the proceeding with great admiration. This done, Mr. Bob Sawyer, with the assistance of the boy, forcibly worked himself into the rough coat, which was a few sizes too small for him, and then, advancing to the coach window, thrust in his head and laughed boisterously. What a start it is, isn't it? cried Bob, wiping the tears out of his eyes with one of the cuffs of the rough coat. My dear sir, said Mr. Pickwick, with some embarrassment, I had no idea of your company, yes. No, that's just the very thing, replied Bob, seizing Mr. Pickwick by the lapel of his coat. That's the joke. Oh, that's the joke, is it? said Mr. Pickwick. Of course, replied Bob. It's the whole point of the thing, you know, that, and leaving the business to take care of itself, as it seems to have made up its mind not to take care of me. With this explanation of the phenomenon of the shutters, Mr. Bob Sawyer pointed to the shop and relapsed into an ecstasy of mirth. Bless me, you are surely not mad enough to think of leaving your patients without anybody to attend them, remonstrated Mr. Pickwick in a very serious tone. Why not? asked Bob in reply. I shall save by it, you know. None of them ever pay. Besides, said Bob, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper, they will be all the better for it, for being nearly out of drugs and not able to increase my account just now, I should have been obliged to give them Calamel all around, and it would have been certain to have disagreed with some of them, so it's all for the best. There was a philosophy and a strength of reasoning about this reply, which Mr. Pickwick was not prepared for. He paused a few moments and added, less firmly than before. But this chase my young friend will only hold two, and I am pledged to Mr. Allen. Don't think of me for a minute, replied Bob. I have arranged it all. Sam and I will share the dickey between us. Look here. This little bill is to be wafered on the shop door. Sawyer, late Nakamorf, inquire of Mrs. Cripps over the way. Mrs. Cripps is my boy's mother. Mr. Sawyer is very sorry, says Mrs. Cripps, couldn't help it, fetched away early this morning to a consultation of the very first surgeons in the country, couldn't do without him, would have him at any price, tremendous operation. The fact is, said Bob, in conclusion, it'll do me more good than otherwise, I expect. If it gets into one of the local papers, it will be the making of me. Here's Ben. Now then, jump in. With these hurried words Mr. Bob Sawyer pushed the post boy on one side, jerked his friend into the vehicle, slammed the door, put up the steps, wafered the bill on the street door, locked it, put the key in his pocket, jumped into the dickey, gave the word for starting, and did the hole with such extraordinary precipitation. The before Mr. Pickwick had well begun to consider whether Mr. Bob Sawyer ought to go or not, they were rolling away with Mr. Bob Sawyer thoroughly established as part and parcel of the aquapage. So long as their progress was confined to the streets of Bristol, the facetious Bob kept his professional green spectacles on and conducted himself with becoming steadiness and gravity of demeanor, merely giving utterance to diverse verbal witticisms for the exclusive behoof and entertainment of Mr. Samuel Weller. But when they emerged on the open road, he threw off his green spectacles and his gravity together and performed a great variety of practical jokes which were calculated to attract the attention of the passersby and to render the carriage and those it contained objects of more than ordinary curiosity. The least conspicuous among these feats, being a most vociferous imitation of a key bugle and the ostentatious display of a crimson silk pocket-hanker-chip attached to a walking stick, which was occasionally waved in the air with various gestures indicative of supremacy and defiance. I wonder, said Mr. Pickwick, stopping in the midst of a most sedate conversation with Ben Allen, bearing reference to the numerous good qualities of Mr. Winkle and his sister, I wonder what all the people we pass can see in us to make them stare so. It's a neat turnout, replied Ben Allen, with something of pride in his tone. They're not used to see this sort of thing every day, I dare say. Possibly, replied Mr. Pickwick, it may be so. Perhaps it is. Mr. Pickwick might very probably have reasoned himself into the belief that it really was, had he not, just then, happening to look out of the coach window, observed that the looks of the passengers be tokened anything but respectful astonishment and that various telegraphic communications appear to be passing between them and some persons outside the vehicle, whereupon it occurred to him that these demonstrations might be, in some remote degree, referable to the humorous department of Mr. Robert Sawyer. I hope, said Mr. Pickwick, that our volatile friend is committing no absurdities in that dicky behind. Oh, dear no, replied Ben Allen, except when he's elevated Bob's the quietest creature breathing. Here a prolonged imitation of a key bugle broke upon the ear, succeeded by cheers and screams, all of which evidently proceeded from the throat and lungs of the quietest creature breathing, or in plainer designation of Mr. Bob Sawyer himself. Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Ben Allen looked expressively at each other, and the former gentleman taking off his hat and leaning out of the coach window until nearly the hold of his waistcoat was outside it was at length enabled to catch a glimpse of his facetious friend. Mr. Bob Sawyer was seated, not in the dicky, but on the roof of the chase, with his legs as far as thunder as they would conveniently go, wearing Mr. Samuel Weller's hat on one side of his head, and burying in one hand the most enormous sandwich, while in the other he supported a goodly sized case bottle, to both of which he applied himself with intense relish, varying the monotony of the occupation by an occasional howl or the interchange of some lively bed and eyes with any passing stranger. The crimson flag was carefully tied in an erect position to the rail of the dicky, and Mr. Samuel Weller, decorated with Bob Sawyer's hat, was seated in the center thereof discussing a twin sandwich with an animated countenance, the expression of which betokened his entire and perfect approval of the whole arrangement. This was enough to irritate a gentleman with Mr. Pickwick's sense of propriety, but it was not the whole extent of the aggravation. For a stagecoach full, inside and out, was meeting them at the moment, and the astonishment of the passengers was very palpably evinced. The congratulations of an Irish family, too, who were keeping up with the chase and begging all the time, were a rather boisterous description, especially those of its male head, who appeared to consider the display as part and parcel of some political or other procession of triumph. Mr. Sawyer cried Mr. Pickwick in a state of great excitement. Mr. Sawyer, sir. Hello, responded that gentleman looking over the side of the chase with all the coolness in life. Are you mad, sir? demanded Mr. Pickwick. Not a bit of it, replied Bob, only cheerful. Cheerful, sir, ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. Take down that scandalous red handkerchief I beg. I insist, sir. Sam, take it down. Before Sam could interpose, Mr. Bob Sawyer gracefully struck his colors, and, having put them in his pocket, knotted in a courteous manner to Mr. Pickwick, wiped the mouth of the case bottle and applied it to his own, thereby informing him, without any unnecessary waste of words, that he devoted that draft to wishing him all manner of happiness and prosperity. Having done this, Bob replaced the cork with great care, and looking benignantly down on Mr. Pickwick, took a large bite out of the sandwich and smiled. Come, said Mr. Pickwick, whose momentary anger was not quite proof against Bob's immovable self-possession, pray let us have no more of this absurdity. Oh, no, replied Bob, once more exchanging hands with Mr. Weller. I didn't mean to do it, only I got so enlivened with the ride that I couldn't help it. Think of the look of the thing, expostulated Mr. Pickwick, have some regard to appearances. Oh, certainly, said Bob, it's not the sort of thing at all, all over, Governor. Satisfied with this assurance, Mr. Pickwick once more drew his head into the chaise and pulled up the glass, but he had scarcely resumed the conversation which Mr. Bob Sawyer had interrupted when he was somewhat startled by the apparition of a small dark body of an oblong form on the outside of the window, which gave sundry taps against it as if impatient of admission. What's this? exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. It looks like a case bottle, remarked Ben Allen, eyeing the object in question through his spectacles with some interest. I rather think it belongs to Bob. The impression was perfectly accurate, for Mr. Bob Sawyer, having attached the case bottle to the end of the walking stick, was battering the window with it in token of his wish that his friends inside would partake of its contents in all good fellowship and harmony. What's to be done, said Mr. Pickwick, looking at the bottle, this proceeding is more absurd than the other. I think it would be best to take it in, replied Mr. Ben Allen. It would serve him right to take it in and keep it, wouldn't it? It would, said Mr. Pickwick, shall I? I think at the most proper course we could possibly adopt, replied Ben. This advice, quite coinciding with his own opinion, Mr. Pickwick gently let down the window and disengaged the bottle from the stick, upon which the ladder was drawn up and Mr. Bob Sawyer was heard to laugh heartily. What a merry dog it is, said Mr. Pickwick, looking round at his companion with the bottle in his hand. He is, said Mr. Allen. You cannot possibly be angry with him, remarked Mr. Pickwick. Quite out of the question, observed Benjamin Allen. During this short interchange of sentiments, Mr. Pickwick had, in an abstracted mood, uncorked the bottle. What is it, inquired Ben Allen carelessly? I don't know, replied Mr. Pickwick, with equal carelessness. It smells, I think, like milk punch. Oh, indeed, said Ben. I think so, rejoined Mr. Pickwick, very properly guarding himself against the possibility of stating an untruth. Mind, I could not undertake to say certainly without tasting it. You had better do so, said Ben. We may as well know what it is. Do you think so? replied Mr. Pickwick. Well, if you are curious to know, of course I have no objection. Ever willing to sacrifice his own feelings to the wishes of his friend, Mr. Pickwick at once took a pretty long taste. What is it? I have never dared Ben Allen interrupting him with some impatience. Curious, said Mr. Pickwick, smacking his lips, I hardly know now. Oh, yes, said Mr. Pickwick after a second taste, it is punch. Mr. Ben Allen looked at Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick looked at Mr. Ben Allen. Mr. Ben Allen smiled. Mr. Pickwick did not. It would serve him right, said the last named gentleman with some severity. It would serve him right to drink it every drop. The very thing that occurred to me, said Ben Allen. Is it indeed, rejoined Mr. Pickwick, then here is his help. With these words that excellent person took a most energetic pull at the bottle and handed it to Ben Allen, who was not slow to imitate his example. The smiles became mutual, and the milk punch was gradually and cheerfully disposed of. After all, said Mr. Pickwick as he drained the last drop, his pranks are really very amusing, very entertaining indeed. You may say that, rejoined Mr. Ben Allen, in proof of Bob Sawyer's being one of the funniest fellows alive, he proceeded to entertain Mr. Pickwick with a long and circumstantial account how that gentleman once drank himself into a fever and got his head shaved. The relation of which pleasant and agreeable history was only stopped by the stoppage of the chaise at the bell at Berkeley Heath to change horses. I say we're going to dine here, aren't we? said Bob, looking in at the window. Dine! said Mr. Pickwick, why, we have only come nineteen miles and have eighty seven and a half to go. Just the reason why we should take something to enable us to bear up against the fatigue, remonstrated Mr. Bob Sawyer. Oh, it's quite impossible to dine at half past eleven o'clock in the day, replied Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch. So it is, rejoined Bob, lunch is the very thing. Hello, you sir, lunch for three directly and keep the horses back for a quarter of an hour, tell them to put everything they have cold on the table and some bottled ale and let us taste your very best Madeira. Issuing these orders with monstrous importance in bustle Mr. Bob Sawyer at once hurried into the house to superintend the arrangements. In less than five minutes he returned and declared them to be excellent. The quality of the lunch fully justified the eulogium which Bob had pronounced, and very great justice was done to it not only by that gentleman but Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Pickwick also. After the auspices of the three the bottled ale and the Madeira were promptly disposed of, and when the horses being once more put to they resumed their seats with the case bottle full of the best substitute for milk punch that could be procured on so short a notice the key bugle sounded and the red flag waved without the slightest opposition on Mr. Pickwick's part. At the hot pole at Tuxbury they stopped to dine, upon which occasion there was more bottled ale with some more Madeira and some port besides, and here the case bottle was replenished for the fourth time. Under the influence of these combined stimulants Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Ben Allen fell fast asleep for thirty miles, while Bob and Mr. Weller sang duets in the diki. It was quite dark when Mr. Pickwick browsed himself sufficiently to look out of the window. The straggling cottages by the roadside, the dingy hue of every object visible, the murky atmosphere, the paths of cinders and brick dust, the deep red glow of furnace fires in the distance, the volumes of dense smoke issuing heavily forth from high toppling chimneys, blackening and obscuring everything around, the glare of distant lights, the ponderous wagons which toiled along the road laden with clashing rods of iron or piled with heavy goods, all be tokened their rapid approach to the great working town of Birmingham. As they rattled through the narrow thoroughfares leading to the heart of the turmoil, the sights and sounds of earnest occupations struck more forcibly on the senses. The streets were thronged with working people. The hum of labor resounded from every house. Lights gleamed from the long casement windows and the attic stories, and the whirl of wheels and noise of machinery shook the trembling walls. The fires whose lurid, sullen light had been visible for miles, blazed fiercely up in the great works and factories of the town. The din of hammers, the rushing of steam, and the dead heavy clanking of engines was the harsh music which arose from every quarter. The postboy was driving briskly through the open streets and passed the handsome and well-lighted shops that intervened between the outskirts of the town and the old royal hotel, before Mr. Pickwick had begun to consider the very difficult and delicate nature of the commission which had carried him thither. The delicate nature of this commission and the difficulty of executing it in a satisfactory manner were by no means lessened by the voluntary companionship of Mr. Bob Sawyer. Truth to tell, Mr. Pickwick felt that his presence on the occasion, however considerate and gratifying, was by no means an honor he would willingly have sought. In fact, he would cheerfully have given a reasonable sum of money to have had Mr. Bob Sawyer removed to any place at not less than fifty miles distance without delay. Mr. Pickwick had never held any personal communication with Mr. Winkle Sr., although he had once or twice corresponded with him by letter, and returned satisfactory answers to his inquiries concerning the moral character and behavior of his son. He felt nervously sensible that the weight upon him for the first time, attended by Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen, both slightly fuddled, was not the most ingenious and likely means that could have been hit upon to prepossess him in his favor. However, said Mr. Pickwick, endeavoring to reassure himself, I must do the best I can. I must see him tonight for I faithfully promised to do so. If they persist in accompanying me, I must make the interview as brief as possible and be content that for their own sakes they will not expose themselves. As he comforted himself with these reflections, the chaise stopped at the door of the old royal. Ben Allen, having been partially awakened from a stupendous sleep and dragged out by the collar by Mr. Samuel Weller, Mr. Pickwick was enabled to alight. They were shown to a comfortable apartment, and Mr. Pickwick at once propounded a question to the waiter concerning the whereabout of Mr. Winkle's residence. Close by, sir, said the waiter, not above five hundred yards, sir. Mr. Winkle is a warfinger, sir, at the canal, sir. Private residence is not, oh dear, no, sir, not five hundred yards, sir. Here the waiter blew a candle out and made a faint of lighting it again in order to afford Mr. Pickwick an opportunity of asking any further questions if he felt so disposed. Take anything now, sir, said the waiter, lighting the candle in desperation at Mr. Pickwick's silence. Tea or coffee, sir? Dinner, sir? Nothing now. Very good, sir. Like to order supper, sir? Not just now. Very good, sir. Here he walked slowly to the door, and then, stopping short, turned round and said, with great suavity, shall I send the chambermaid, gentlemen? You may, if you please, replied Mr. Pickwick. If you please, sir. And bring some soda water, said Bob Sawyer. Soda water, sir? Yes, sir. With his mind apparently relieved from an overwhelming weight by having at last got in order for something, the waiter imperceptibly melted away. Waiters never walk or run. They have a peculiar and mysterious power of skimming out of rooms which other mortals possess not. Some slight symptoms of vitality having been awakened in Mr. Ben Allen by the soda water, he suffered himself to be prevailed upon to wash his face and hands, and to submit to be brushed by Sam. Mr. Pickwick and Bob Sawyer, having also repaired the disorder which the journey had made in their apparel, the three started forth, arm in arm, to Mr. Winkles. Bob Sawyer impregnating the atmosphere with tobacco smoke as he walked along. About a quarter of a mile off, in a quiet, substantial looking street, stood an old red brick house with three steps before the door, and a brass plate upon it, bearing in fat Roman capitals the words Mr. Winkle. The steps were very white, and the bricks were very red, and the house was very clean. And here stood Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Benjamin Allen, and Mr. Bob Sawyer as the clock struck ten. A smart, servant girl answered the knock, and started unbeholding the three strangers. Is Mr. Winkle at home, my dear, inquired Mr. Pickwick? He is just going to supper, sir, replied the girl. Give him that card, if you please, rejoined Mr. Pickwick. Say I am sorry to trouble him at so late an hour, but I am anxious to see him to-night, and have only just arrived. The girl looked timidly at Mr. Bob Sawyer, who was expressing his admiration of her personal charms by a variety of wonderful grimaces, and casting an eye at the hats and great-coats which hung in the passage called another girl to mind the door while she went upstairs. The sentinel was speedily relieved, for the girl returned immediately, and begging pardon of the gentleman for leaving them in the street, ushered them into a floor-clothed, bat parlor, half-office, and half-dressing room, in which the principal, useful, and ornamental articles of furniture were a desk, a wash-hand stand, and shaving-glass, a boot-rack and boot-jack, a high stool, four chairs, a table, and an old eight-day clock. Over the mantelpiece were the sunken doors of an iron safe, while a couple of hanging shelves for books, an almanac, and several files of dusty papers decorated the walls. Very sorry to leave you standing at the door, sir, said the girl, lighting a lamp, and addressing Mr. Pickwick with the winning smile, which was quite strange to me, and we have such a many trampers that only come to see what they can lay their hands on that really there's not the least occasion for any apology, my dear, said Mr. Pickwick good-humoredly. Not the slightest, my love, said Bob Sawyer, playfully stretching forth his arms, and skipping from side to side as if to prevent the young ladies leaving the room. The young lady was not at all softened by these allurements, for she at once expressed her opinion that Mr. Bob Sawyer was an odious creedor, and on his becoming rather more pressing in his attentions, imprinted her fair fingers upon his face, and bounced out of the room with many expressions of aversion and contempt. Deprived of the young lady's society, Mr. Bob Sawyer proceeded to divert himself by peeping into the desk, looking into all the table drawers, feigning to pick the lock of the iron safe, turning the almanac with its face to the ball, trying on the boots of Mr. Winkle Sr. over his own, and making several other humorous experiments upon the furniture, all of which afforded Mr. Pickwick unspeakable horror and agony, and yielded Mr. Bob Sawyer proportionate delight. At length the door opened, and a little old gentleman in a snuff-colored suit with a head and face, the precise counterpart of those belonging to Mr. Winkle, Jr., accepting that he was rather bald, trotted into the room with Mr. Pickwick's card in one hand and a silver candlestick in the other. Mr. Pickwick, sir, how do you do? said Winkle, the elder, putting down the candlestick and proffering his hand. Hope I see you well, sir. Glad to see you. Be seated, Mr. Pickwick. I beg, sir. This gentleman is my friend Mr. Sawyer, interposed Mr. Pickwick, your son's friend. Oh, said Mr. Winkle, the elder, looking rather grimly at Bob. I hope you are well, sir. Right as a trivet, sir, replied Bob Sawyer. This other gentleman, cried Mr. Pickwick, is, as you will see when you have read the letter with which I am entrusted, a very near relative, or I should rather say a very particular friend of your son's. His name is Allen. That gentleman, inquired Mr. Winkle, pointing with the card towards Ben Allen, who had fallen asleep in an attitude which left nothing of him visible but his spine and his coat collar. Mr. Pickwick was on the point of replying to the question, and reciting Mr. Benjamin Allen's name and honorable distinctions at full length, when the sparkly Mr. Bob Sawyer, with a view of rousing his friend to a sense of his situation, inflicted a startling pinch upon the fleshly part of his arm, which caused him to jump up with a shriek. Suddenly aware that he was in the presence of a stranger, Mr. Ben Allen advanced, and shaking Mr. Winkle most affectionately by both hands for about five minutes, murmured in some half intelligible fragments of sentences the great delight he felt in seeing him, and a hospitable inquiry whether he felt disposed to take anything after his walk or would prefer waiting till dinner time. Which done he sat down and gazed about him with a petrified stare as if he had not the remotest idea where he was, which indeed he had not. All this was most embarrassing to Mr. Pickwick, the more especially as Mr. Winkle's senior even palpable astonishment at the eccentric, not to say extraordinary, behavior of his two companions. To bring the matter to an issue at once he drew a letter from his pocket, and presenting it to Mr. Winkle's senior said, This letter, sir, is from your son. You will see by its contents that on your favorable and fatherly consideration of it depend his future happiness and welfare. Will you oblige me by giving it the calmest and coolest perusal, and by discussing the subject afterwards with me in the tone and spirit in which alone it ought to be discussed? You may judge of the importance of your decision to your son, and his intense anxiety upon the subject, by my waiting upon you without any previous warning it so late an hour, and added Mr. Pickwick glancing slightly at his two companions, and under such unfavorable circumstances. With this prelude Mr. Pickwick placed four closely written sides of extra-superfine wire-wulf penitence in the hands of the astounded Mr. Winkle's senior. Then reseeding himself in his chair he watched his looks and manner. Anxiously it is true, but with the open front of a gentleman who feels he has taken no part which he need excuse or palliate. The old warfinger turned the letter over, looked at the front, back, and sides, made a microscopic examination of the fat little boy on the seal, raised his eyes to Mr. Pickwick's face, and then, seating himself on the high stool and drawing the lamp closer to him, broke the wax, unfolded the epistle, and lifting it to the light prepared to read. Just at this moment Mr. Bob Sawyer, whose wit had lain dormant for some minutes, placed his hands on his knees and made a face after the portraits of the late Mr. Grimaldi as clown. It so happened that Mr. Winkle's senior, instead of being deeply engaged in reading the letter, as Mr. Bob Sawyer thought, chanced to be looking over the top of it at no less a person than Mr. Bob Sawyer himself. Rightly conjecturing that the face aforesaid was made in ridicule and origin of his own person, he fixed his eyes on Bob with such expressive sternness that the late Mr. Grimaldi's lineaments gradually resolved themselves into a very fine expression of humility and confusion. Did you speak, sir? inquired Mr. Winkle's senior after an awful silence. No, sir, replied Bob, with no remains of the clown about him, gave and accept the extreme redness of his cheeks. You are sure you did not, sir? said Mr. Winkle's senior. Oh, dear, yes, sir, quite, replied Bob. I thought you did, sir, replied the old gentleman with indignant emphasis. Perhaps you looked at me, sir. Oh, no, sir, not at all, replied Bob, with extreme civility. I am very glad to hear it, sir, said Mr. Winkle's senior. Having frowned upon the abashed Bob with great magnificence, the old gentleman again brought the letter to the light and began to read it seriously. Mr. Pickwick eyed him intently as he turned from the bottom line of the first page to the top line of the second, and from the bottom of the second to the top of the third, and from the bottom of the third to the top of the fourth, but not the slightest alteration of countenance afforded a clue to the feelings with which he received the announcement of his son's marriage, which Mr. Pickwick knew was in the very first half-dozen lines. He read the letter to the last word, folded it again with all the carefulness and precision of a man of business, and just when Mr. Pickwick expected some great outbreak of feeling, dipped a pen in the ink-stand, and said, as quietly as if he were speaking on the most ordinary counting-house topic, what is Nathaniel's address, Mr. Pickwick? The George and Vulture at present, replied that gentleman. George and Vulture, where is that? George Yard, Lombard Street. In the city? Yes. The old gentleman methodically endorsed the address on the back of the letter, and then, placing it in the desk, which he locked, said as he got off the stool and put the bunch of keys in his pocket. I suppose there is nothing else which need detain us, Mr. Pickwick? Nothing else, my dear sir, observed that warm-hearted person in indignant amazement. Nothing else! Have you no opinion to express on this momentous event in our young friend's life? No assurance to convey to him through me of the continuance of your affection and protection? Nothing to say which will cheer and sustain him and the anxious girl who looks to him for comfort and support? My dear sir, consider. I will consider, replied the old gentleman. I have nothing to say just now. I am a man of business, Mr. Pickwick. I never commit myself hastily in any affair, and from what I see of this I by no means like the appearance of it. A thousand pounds is not much, Mr. Pickwick. You're very right, sir, I suppose, Ben Allen, just awake enough to know that he had spent his thousand pounds without the smallest difficulty. You're an intelligent man. Bob, he's a very knowing fellow, this. I'm very happy to find that you do me the justice to make the admission, sir, said Mr. Winkle Sr., looking contemptuously at Ben Allen, who was shaking his head profoundly. The fact is, Mr. Pickwick, that when I gave my son a roving license for a year or so, to see something of men and manners, which he has done under your auspices, so that he might not enter life a mere boarding school milk-sock to be gulled by everybody, I never bargained for this. He knows that very well. So if I withdraw my countenance from him on this account, he has no call to be surprised. He shall hear from me, Mr. Pickwick. Good night, sir. Margaret opened the door. All this time Bob Sawyer had been nudging Mr. Ben Allen to say something on the right side. Ben accordingly now burst, without the slightest preliminary notice, into a brief but impassioned piece of eloquence. Sir, said Mr. Ben Allen, staring at the old gentleman, out of a pair of very dim and languid eyes, and working his right arm vehemently up and down, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. As the lady's brother, of course you are an excellent judge of the question, retorted Mr. Winkle Sr. There, that's enough. Pray say no more, Mr. Pickwick. Good night, gentlemen. With these words the old gentleman took up the candlestick and opening the room door, politely motioned towards the passage. You will regret this, sir, said Mr. Pickwick, setting his teeth close together to keep down his collar, for he felt how important the effect might prove to his young friend. I am at present of a different opinion, calmly replied Mr. Winkle Sr. Once again, gentlemen, I wish you a good night. Mr. Pickwick walked with angry strides into the street. Mr. Bob Sawyer, completely quelled by the decision of the old gentleman's manner, took the same course. Mr. Ben Allen's hat rolled down the steps immediately afterwards, and Mr. Ben Allen's body followed it directly. The whole party went silent and supperless to bed, and Mr. Pickwick thought, just before he fell asleep, that if he had known Mr. Winkle Sr. had been quite so much of a man of business, it was extremely probable he might never have waited upon him on such an errand. CHAPTER 51 In which Mr. Pickwick encounters an old acquaintance, to which fortunate circumstance the reader is mainly indebted for matter of thrilling interest herein set down, concerning two great public men of might and power. The morning which broke upon Mr. Pickwick's sight at eight o'clock was not at all calculated to elevate his spirits, or to lessen the depression which the unloaked foreresult of his embassy inspired. The sky was dark and gloomy, the air was damp and raw, the streets were wet and sloppy. The smoke hung sluggishly above the chimney tops, as if it lacked the courage to rise, and the rain came slowly and doggedly down, as if it had not even the spirit to pour. A gamecock in the stable yard, deprived of every spark of his accustomed animation, balanced himself dismally on one leg in a corner. A donkey, moping with a drooping head under the narrow roof of an outhouse, appeared from his meditative and miserable countenance to be contemplating suicide. In the street umbrellas were the only things to be seen, and the clicking of patents and splashing of raindrops were the only sounds to be heard. The breakfast was interrupted by very little conversation. Even Mr. Bob Sawyer felt the influence of the weather in the previous day's excitement. In his own expressive language he was floored. So was Mr. Ben Allen, so was Mr. Pickwick. In protracted expectation of the weather clearing up, the last evening paper from London was read and reread with an intensity of interest only known in cases of extreme destitution. Every inch of the carpet was walked over with similar perseverance. The windows were looked out of, often enough to justify the imposition of an additional duty upon them. All kinds of topics of conversation were started and failed, and at length Mr. Pickwick, when noon had arrived without a change for the better, rang the bell resolutely and ordered out the chaise. Although the roads were mirey and the drizzling rain came down harder than it had done yet, and although the mud and wet splashed in at the open windows of the carriage to such an extent that the discomfort was almost as great to the pair of insides as to the pair of outsides, still there was something in the motion and the sense of being up and doing, which was so infinitely superior to being pent in a dull room, looking at the dull rain dripping into a dull street, that they all agreed on starting that the change was a great improvement, and wondered how they could possibly have delayed making it as long as they had done. When they stopped to change at Coventry, the steam ascended from the horses in such clouds as wholly to obscure the hustler, whose voice was, however, heard to declare from the mist that he expected the first gold medal from the Humane Society on their next distribution of rewards for taking the post-boy's hat off. The water, descending from the brim of which the invisible gentleman declared must have drowned him, the post-boy, but for his great presence of mind in tearing it promptly from his head and drying the gasping man's countenance with a wisp of straw. "'This is pleasant,' said Bob Sawyer, turning up his coke collar, and pulling the shawl over his mouth to concentrate the fumes of a glass of brandy just swallowed. "'Wary,' replied Sam, composedly. "'You don't seem to mind it,' observed Bob. "'But I don't exactly see no good my mind and honor to do, sir,' replied Sam. "'That's an unanswerable reason, anyhow,' said Bob. "'Yes, sir,' rejoined Mr. Weller. "'Whatever is is right,' as the young nobleman sweetly remarked, when they put him down in the pension list, because his mother's uncle's wife's grandfather once lit the king's pipe at the portable tinderbox. "'Not a bad notion that,' said Mr. Bob Sawyer approvingly. "'Just what the young nobleman said every quarter day afterwards for the rest of his life,' replied Mr. Weller. "'Was you ever called in?' inquired Sam, glancing at the driver after a short silence and lowering his voice to a mysterious whisper. "'Was you ever called in when you was prenticed "'to a saw-bones to visit a post-boy?' "'I don't remember that I ever was,' replied Bob Sawyer. "'You never see a post-boy in that air-hospital "'as you walked, as they says to the ghosts. "'Did you?' demanded Sam. "'No,' replied Bob Sawyer. "'I don't think I ever did. "'Never know to churchyard whether it was a post-boy's "'tombstone, or see a dead post-boy, did you?' "'Inquired Sam, pursuing his catechism. "'No, rejoined Bob I never did. "'No,' rejoined Sam triumphantly. "'No, never will. "'And there's another thing that no man never see "'and that's a dead donkey. "'No man never see a dead donkey, "'sept the gentleman in the black silk smalls "'as no the young omen as kept a goat. "'And that was a French donkey, "'so where he likely he weren't one of the regular breed. "'Well, what has that got to do with the post-boys?' "'asked Bob Sawyer.' "'This here,' replied Sam. "'Without going so far as to assert, "'as some wary sensible people do, "'that post-boys and donkeys is both immortal. "'What I say is this, "'that whenever they feel as their selves "'getten stiff and past their work, "'they just brides off together, "'one post-boy to a pair in the usual way. "'What becomes of them nobody knows, "'but it's very probable as they starts of a "'to take their pleasure in some other world, "'for there ain't a man alive as ever see, "'either a donkey or a post-boy "'a taking his pleasure in this.' "'Expatiating upon this learned and remarkable theory, "'inciting many curious statistical and other facts "'in its support, Sam Weller beguiled the time "'until they reached Dunn Church, "'where a dry post-boy and fresh horses were procured. "'The next stage was daventry and the next toaster. "'And at the end of each stage, "'it rained harder than it had done at the beginning. "'I say,' remonstrated Bob Sawyer, "'looking in at the coach window as they pulled up "'before the door of the Saracen's head toaster. "'This won't do, you know. "'Bless me,' said Mr. Pickwick, "'just awakening from a nap. "'I'm afraid you're wet. "'Oh, you are, are you?' returned Bob. "'Yes, I am, a little that way. "'Uncomfortably damp, perhaps.' "'Bob did look dampish in as much as the rain "'was streaming from his neck, elbows, cuffs, "'skirts, and knees, and his whole apparel "'shown so with the wet that it might have been mistaken "'for a full suit of prepared oil-skin. "'I am rather wet,' said Bob, giving himself a shake "'and casting a little hydraulic shower around, "'like a newfoundland dog just emerged from the water. "'I think it's quite impossible to go on tonight,' "'interposed Ben. "'Out of the question, sir,' remarked Sam Weller, "'coming to assist in the conference. "'It's a cruelty to animals, sir, to ask him to do it. "'There's beds here, sir,' said Sam, "'addressing his master. "'Everything clean and comfortable. "'Very good, little dinner, sir. "'They can get ready in half an hour. "'Pair of fouls, sir, in a wheel cutlet. "'French beans, taters, tart, and tidiness. "'You'd better stop where you are, sir, if I might recommend. "'Take advice, sir,' as the doctor said. "'The host of the Saracen's head "'opportunally appeared at this moment "'to confirm Mr. Weller's statement "'relative to the accommodations of the establishment, "'and to back his entreaties with a variety "'of dismal conjectures regarding the state of the roads, "'the doubt of fresh horses being to be had at the next stage, "'the dead certainty of its raining all night, "'the equally mortal certainty of its clearing up in the morning, "'and other topics of inducement familiar to innkeepers. "'Well,' said Mr. Pickwick, "'but I must send a letter to London by some conveyance "'so that it may be delivered the very first thing in the morning, "'or I must go forwards at all hazards. "'The landlord smiled his delight. "'Nothing could be easier than for the gentleman "'to enclose a letter in a sheet of brown paper "'and send it on either by the mail "'or the night coach from Birmingham. "'If the gentleman were particularly anxious "'to have it left as soon as possible, "'he might right outside to be delivered immediately, "'which was sure to be attended to, "'or pay the bearer half a crown extra "'for instant delivery, which was sure still. "'Very well,' said Mr. Pickwick, "'then we will stop here. "'Lights in the sun, John, make up the fire, "'the gentlemen are wet,' cried the landlord. "'This way, gentlemen, don't trouble yourselves "'about the post-boy now, sir. "'I'll send him to you when you ring for him, sir. "'Now, John, the candles.' "'The candles were brought, the fire was stirred up, "'and a fresh log of wood thrown on. "'In ten minutes time a waiter was laying the cloth for dinner. "'The curtains were drawn, the fire was blazing brightly, "'and everything looked, as everything always does, "'in all decent English ins, "'as if the travellers had been expected "'in their comforts prepared for days beforehand.' Mr. Pickwick sat down at a side-table, and hastily indicted a note to Mr. Winkle, merely informing him that he was detained by stress of weather, but would certainly be in London next day, until when he deferred any account of his proceedings. This note was hastily made into a parcel and dispatched to the bar per Mr. Samuel Weller. Sam left it with the landlady, and was returning to pull his master's boots off after drying himself by the kitchen fire. When glancing casually through a half-open door, he was arrested by the sight of a gentleman with a sandy head, who had a large bundle of newspapers lying on the table before him, and was perusing the leading article of one with a settled sneer, which curled up his nose and all other features into a majestic expression of haughty contempt. "'Hello,' said Sam. "'I ought to know that air-head in them features. "'The eyeglass, too, in the broad-brimmed tile. "'Eaton's filled a bit, or I'm a Roman.' Sam was taken with a troublesome cough at once for the purpose of attracting the gentleman's attention. The gentleman, starting at the sound, raised his head and his eyeglass, and disclosed to view the profound and thoughtful features of Mr. Pot of the Eaton's Will Gazette. "'Beggin your pardons, sir,' said Sam, advancing with a bow. "'My master's here, Mr. Pot.' "'Hush, hush,' cried Pot, drawing Sam into the room and closing the door with a countenance of mysterious dread and apprehension. "'What's the matter, sir?' inquired Sam, looking vacantly about him. "'Not a whisper of my name,' replied Pot. "'This is a buffed neighborhood. If the excited and irritable populace knew I was here, I should be torn to pieces.' "'No, would you, sir?' inquired Sam. "'I should be the victim of their fury,' replied Pot. "'Now, young man, what of your master? "'He's a-stopping here tonight on his vader town.' "'With a couple of friends,' replied Sam. "'Is Mr. Winkle one of them?' inquired Pot with a slight frown. "'No, sir. Mr. Winkle stops at home now. "'We join, Sam. He's married.' "'Married,' exclaimed Pot, with frightful vehemence. He stopped, smiled darkly, and added in a low vindictive tone. "'It serves him right.' Having given vent to this cruel ebullition of deadly malice and cold-blooded triumph over a fallen enemy, Mr. Pot inquired whether Mr. Pickwick's friends were blue. Receiving the most satisfactory answer in the affirmative from Sam, who knew as much about the matter as Pot himself, he consented to accompany him to Mr. Pickwick's room, where a hearty welcome awaited him, and an agreement to club their dinners together was at once made and ratified. "'And how are matters going on in Eaton's swell?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, when Pot had taken a seat near the fire, and the whole party had got their wet boots off and dry slippers on. "'Is the independence still in being?' "'The independence,' sir,' replied Pot, is still dragging on a wretched and lingering career, abhorred and despised by even the few who are cognizant of its miserable and disgraceful existence, stifled by the very filth it so profusely scatters, rendered deaf and blind by the exhalations of its own slime. The obscene journal, happily unconscious of its degraded state, is rapidly sinking beneath that treacherous mud which, while it seems to give it a firm standing with the low and debased classes of society, is nevertheless rising above its detested head and will speedily engulf it forever. Having delivered this manifesto, which formed a portion of his last week's leader, with vehement articulation, the editor paused to take breath and looked majestically at Bob Sawyer. "'You are a young man, sir,' said Pot.' Mr. Bob Sawyer nodded. "'So are you, sir,' said Pot, addressing Mr. Ben Allen, then admitted the soft impeachment, and are both deeply imbued with those blue principles which, so long as I live, I have pledged myself to the people of these kingdoms to support and to maintain,' suggested Pot. "'Why, I don't exactly know about that,' replied Bob Sawyer. "'I am not buff,' Mr. Pickwick interrupted Pot, drawing back his chair. "'Your friend is not buff, sir.' "'No, no,' rejoined Bob. "'I am a kind of plaid at present, a compound of all sorts of colors.' "'A waverer,' said Pot solemnly. "'A waverer. "'I should like to show you a series of eight articles, sir, that have appeared in the Eaton-Swell Gazette. "'I think I may venture to say that you would not be long in establishing your opinions on a firm and solid blue basis, sir. "'I dare say I should turn very blue long before I got to the end of them,' responded Bob. Mr. Pot looked dubiously at Bob Sawyer for some seconds, and turning to Mr. Pickwick said, "'You have seen the literary articles which have appeared at intervals in the Eaton-Swell Gazette in the course of the last three months, and which have excited such general, I may say, such universal attention and admiration?' "'Why?' replied Mr. Pickwick, slightly embarrassed by the question. "'The fact is I have been so much engaged in other ways that I really have not had an opportunity of perusing them. "'You should do so, sir,' said Pot, with the severe countenance. "'I will,' said Mr. Pickwick. "'They appeared in the form of a copious review of a work on Chinese metaphysics, sir,' said Pot. "'Oh,' observed Mr. Pickwick, "'from your pen, I hope. "'From the pen of my critic, sir,' rejoined Pot with dignity. "'An abstruse subject I should conceive,' said Mr. Pickwick. "'Very,' sir,' responded Pot, looking intensely sage. He crammed for it, to use a technical but expressive term. He read up for the subject at my desire in the Encyclopedia of Britannica. "'Indeed,' said Mr. Pickwick, "'I was not aware that that valuable work contained any information respecting Chinese metaphysics. "'He read, sir,' rejoined Pot, laying his hand on Mr. Pickwick's knee, and looking round with a smile of intellectual superiority. He read for metaphysics under the letter M and for China under the letter C, and combined his information, sir.' Mr. Pot's features assumed so much additional grandeur at the recollection of the power and research displayed in the learned effusions in question, that some minutes elapsed before Mr. Pickwick felt emboldened to renew the conversation. At length, as the editor's countenance gradually relaxed into its customary expression of moral supremacy, he ventured to resume the discourse by asking, "'Is it fair to inquire what great object has brought you so far from home? That object which actuates and animates me in all my gigantic labours, sir,' replied Pot with a calm smile. "'My country's good.' "'I suppose it was some public mission,' observed Mr. Pickwick. "'Yes, sir,' resumed Pot. "'It is.' Here, bending towards Mr. Pickwick, he whispered in a deep hollow voice, "'Above balls, sir, will take place in Birmingham tomorrow evening.' "'God bless me,' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. "'Yes, sir,' and supper added Pot. "'You don't say so,' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. Pot nodded portentously. Now, although Mr. Pickwick feigned to stand aghast at this disclosure, he was so little versed in local politics that he was unable to form an adequate comprehension of the importance of the dire conspiracy it referred to, observing which Mr. Pot, drawing forth the last number of the Eaton-Swell Gazette and referring to the same, delivered himself of the following paragraph. Hole in Corner Buffery A reptile contemporary has recently sweltered forth his black venom in the vain and hopeless attempt of sullying the fair name of our distinguished and excellent representative, the Honorable Mr. Schlumke. That slumke whom we, long before he gained his present noble and exalted position, predicted would one day be, as he now is, at once his country's brightest honour and her proudest boast, alike her bold defender and her honest pride. A reptile contemporary, we say, has made himself merry at the expense of a superbly embossed, plated coal scuttle, which has been presented to that glorious man by his enraptured constituents, and towards the purchase of which the nameless wretch insinuates the Honorable Mr. Schlumke himself contributed through a confidential friend of his butlers, more than three-fourths of the whole sum subscribed. Why does not the crawling creature see that even if this be the fact, the Honorable Mr. Schlumke only appears in a still more amiable and radiant light than before, if that be possible? Does not even his obtuseness perceive that this amiable and touching desire to carry out the wishes of the constituent body must forever endear him to the hearts and souls of such of his fellow townsmen as are not worse than swine, or, in other words, who are not as debased as our contemporary himself, but such is the wretched trickery of hole-and-corner buffery. These are not its only artifices. Treason is abroad. We boldly state, now that we are goaded to the disclosure, and we throw ourselves on the country and its constables for protection, we boldly state that secret preparations are at this moment in progress for a buff ball, which is to be held in a buff town in the very heart and center of a buff population, which is to be conducted by a buff master of the ceremonies, which is to be attended by four ultra buff members of parliament, and the admission to which is to be by buff tickets. Does our fiendish contemporary wince let him writhe in impotent malice as we pen the words, we will be there. There, sir, said Pott, folding up the paper quite exhausted. That is the state of the case. The landlord and waiter entering at the moment with dinner caused Mr. Pott to lay his finger on his lips and token that he considered his life in Mr. Pickwick's hands and depended on his secrecy. Messers Bob Sawyer and Benjamin Allen, who had irreverently fallen asleep during the reading of the quotation from the Eaton Swell Gazette and the discussion which followed it, were aroused by the mere whispering of the talismanic word dinner in their ears. And to dinner they went with good digestion, waiting on appetite and health on both, and a waiter on all three. In the course of the dinner and the sitting which succeeded it, Mr. Pott descending for a few moments to domestic topics informed Mr. Pickwick that the air of Eaton Swell, not agreeing with his lady, she was then engaged in making a tour of different fashionable watering-places with a view to the recovery of her wanted health and spirits. This was a delicate veiling of the fact that Mrs. Pott, acting upon her often repeated threat of separation, had, in virtue of an arrangement negotiated by her brother the Lieutenant, and concluded by Mr. Pott, permanently retired with the faithful bodyguard upon one moiety or half part of the annual income and profits arising from the editorship and sale of the Eaton Swell Gazette. While the great Mr. Pott was dwelling upon this and other matters, enlivening the conversation from time to time with various extracts from his own lucubrations, a stern stranger calling from the window of a stagecoach outward bound, which halted at the inn to deliver packages, requested to know whether, if he stopped short on his journey and remained there for the night, he could be furnished with the necessary accommodation of a bed and bedstead. Certainly, sir, replied the landlord. A canned can I, inquired the stranger, who seemed habitually suspicious in look and manner. No doubt of it, sir, replied the landlord. Good, said the stranger. Coachman, I get down here. Guard my carpet-bag. Bitting the other passengers good night in a rather snappish manner, the stranger alighted. He was the shortest gentleman, with very stiff black hair, cut in the porcupine or blacking brush style, and standing stiff and straight all over his head. His aspect was pompous and threatening. His manner was peremptory. His eyes were sharp and dressless, and his whole bearing bespoke a feeling of great confidence in himself and a consciousness of immeasurable superiority over all other people. This gentleman was shown into the room originally assigned to the patriotic Mr. Pot, and the waiter remarked, in dumb astonishment at the singular coincidence, that he had no sooner lighted the candles than the gentleman, diving into his hat, drew forth a newspaper, and began to read it with the very same expression of indignant scorn, which, upon the majestic features of Pot, had paralyzed his energies an hour before. The man observed, too, that whereas Mr. Pot's scorn had been roused by a newspaper headed the Eaton Swill Independent, this gentleman's withering contempt was awakened by a newspaper entitled The Eaton Swill Gazette. Send the landlord, said the stranger. Yes, sir, rejoined the waiter. The landlord was sent and came. Are you the landlord? inquired the gentleman. I am, sir, replied the landlord. My name is Slurk, said the gentleman. The landlord slightly inclined his head. Slurk, sir, repeated the gentleman haughtily. Do you know me now, man? The landlord scratched his head, looked at the ceiling, and at the stranger, and smiled feebly. Do you know me, man? inquired the stranger angrily. The landlord made a strong effort, and at length replied, Well, sir, I do not know you. Great heaven, said the stranger, dashing his clenched fist upon the table. And this is popularity. The landlord took a step or two towards the door. The stranger, fixing his eyes upon him, resumed. This, said the stranger, this is gratitude for years of labor and study on behalf of the masses. I alight wet and weary, no enthusiastic crowds press forward to greet their champion. The church bells are silent. The very name elicits no responsive feeling in their torpid bosoms. It is enough, said the agitated Mr. Slurk, pacing to and fro, to curdle the ink in one's pen and induce one to abandon their cause forever. Did you say brandy and water, sir? said the landlord, venturing a hint. Rum, said Mr. Slurk, turning fiercely upon him. Have you got a fire anywhere? We can light one directly, sir, said the landlord, which will throw out no heat until it is bedtime, interrupted Mr. Slurk. Is there anybody in the kitchen? Not a soul. There was a beautiful fire. Everybody had gone and the house door was closed for the night. I will drink my rum and water, said Mr. Slurk, by the kitchen fire. So gathering up his hat and newspaper, he stalked solemnly behind the landlord to that humble apartment and throwing himself on a saddle by the fireside, resumed his countenance of scorn, and began to read and drink in silent dignity. Now some demon of discord, flying over the Saracen's head at that moment, on casting down his eyes in mere idle curiosity, happened to behold Slurk, established comfortably by the kitchen fire, and pot slightly elevated with wine in another room, upon which the malicious demon, darting down into the last mentioned apartment with inconceivable rapidity, passed at once into the head of Mr. Bob Sawyer and prompted him, for his, the demon's own evil purpose, to speak as follows. I say we've let the fire out. It's uncommonly cold after the rain, isn't it? It really is, replied Mr. Pickwick, shivering. It wouldn't be a bad notion to have a cigar by the kitchen fire, would it? Said Bob Sawyer, still prompted by the demon aforesaid. It would be particularly comfortable, I think, replied Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pot, what do you say? Mr. Pot yielded a ready ascent, and all four travelers, each with his glass in his hand, at once betook themselves to the kitchen, with Sam Weller heading the procession to show them the way. The stranger was still reading. He looked up and started. Mr. Pot started. What's the matter? whispered Mr. Pickwick. That reptile, replied Pot. What reptile? said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him for fear he should tread on some overgrown black beetle or dropsicle spider. That reptile, whispered Pot, catching Mr. Pickwick by the arm and pointing towards the stranger. That reptile's slurk of the independent. Perhaps we had better retire, whispered Mr. Pickwick. Never, sir, rejoined Pot. Pot valiant in a double sense. Never. With these words Mr. Pot took up his position on an opposite settle, and selecting one from a little bundle of newspapers, began to read against his enemy. Mr. Pot, of course, read the independent, and Mr. Slurk, of course, read the gazette, and each gentleman audibly expressed his contempt at the other's compositions by bitter laughs and sarcastic sniffs, once they proceeded to more open expressions of opinions such as absurd, wretched, atrocity, humbug, neighbouring, dirt, filth, slime, ditchwater, and other critical remarks of the like nature. Both Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Ben Allen had beheld these symptoms of rivalry and hatred with a degree of delight which imparted great additional relish to the cigars at which they were puffing most vigorously. The moment they began to flag, the mischievous Mr. Bob Sawyer, addressing Slurk with great politeness, said, Will you allow me to look at your paper, sir, when you have quite done with it? You will find very little to repay you for your trouble in this contemptible thing, sir, replied Slurk, bestowing a satanic frown on Pot. You shall have this presently, said Pot, looking up pale with rage and quivering in his speech from the same cause. You will be amused with this fellow's audacity. Terrible emphasis was laid upon thing and fellow, and the faces of both editors began to glow with defiance. The ribaldry of this miserable man is despicably disgusting, said Pot, pretending to address Bob Sawyer and scowling upon Slurk. Here Mr. Slurk laughed very hardly, and folding up the paper so as to get it a fresh column conveniently said that the blockhead really amused him. What an impudent blunderer this fellow is, said Pot, turning from pink to crimson. Did you ever read any of this man's foolery, sir, inquired Slurk of Bob Sawyer? Never, replied Bob, is it very bad? Oh, shocking, shocking, rejoined Slurk. Really, dear me, this is too atrocious, exclaimed Pot at this juncture, still feigning to be absorbed in his reading. If you can wade through a few sentences of malice, meanness, falsehood, perjury, treachery, and can't, said Slurk, handing the paper to Bob, you will perhaps be somewhat repaid by a laugh at the style of this ungrammatical twadler. What's that you said, sir? inquired Mr. Pot, looking up, trembling all over with passion. What's that to you, sir? replied Slurk. Ungrammatical twadler, was it, sir? said Pot. Yes, sir, it was, replied Slurk. And blue bore, sir, if you like that better, ha-ha. Mr. Pot retorted not a word of this joke as insult, but deliberately folded up his copy of the independent, flattened it carefully down, crushed it beneath his boot, spat upon it with great ceremony, and flung it into the fire. There, sir, said Pot, retreating from the stove, and that's the way I would serve the viper who produces it, if I were not, fortunately for him, restrained by the laws of my country. Serve him so, sir, cried Slurk, starting up. Those laws shall never be appealed to by him, sir, in such a case serve him so, sir. Here, here, said Bob Sawyer. Nothing can be fairer, observed Mr. Ben Allen. Serve him so, sir, reiterated Slurk in a loud voice. Mr. Pot darted a look of contempt, which might have withered an anchor. Serve him so, sir, reiterated Slurk in a louder voice than before. I will not, sir, rejoined Pot. Oh, you won't, won't you, sir? said Mr. Slurk in a taunting manner. You hear this, gentlemen, he won't. Not that he's afraid. Oh, no, he won't. I consider you, sir, said Mr. Pot, moved by this sarcasm. I consider you a viper. I look upon you, sir, as a man who has placed himself beyond the pale of society by his most audacious, disgraceful, and abominable public conduct. I view you, sir, personally and politically, in no other light than as a most unparalleled and unmitigated viper. The indignant independent did not wait to hear the end of this personal denunciation. For catching up his carpet bag, which was well stuffed with movables, he swung it in the air as Pot turned away, and letting it fall with a circular sweep on his head just at that particular angle of the bag where a good thick hairbrush happened to be packed caused a sharp crash to be heard throughout the kitchen and brought him at once to the ground. Gentlemen, cried Mr. Pickwick as Pot started up and seized the fire shovel. Gentlemen, consider for heaven's sake, help Sam, hear, pray, gentlemen, interfere, somebody. Uttering these incoherent exclamations, Mr. Pickwick rushed between the infuriated combatants just in time to receive the carpet bag on one side of his body and the fire shovel on the other. Whether the representatives of the public feeling of eat and swell were blinded by animosity, or, being both acute reasoners, saw the advantage of having a third party between them to bear all the blows, certain it is that they paid not the slightest attention to Mr. Pickwick, but defying each other with great spirit plied the carpet bag and the fire shovel most fearlessly. Mr. Pickwick would unquestionably have suffered severely for his humane interference if Mr. Weller, attracted by his master's cries, had not rushed in at the moment and snatching up a meal sack effectively stopped the conflict by drawing it over the head and shoulders of the mighty Pot and clasping him tight round the shoulders. Take away that air bag from the tether-mad man, said Sam to Ben Allen and Bob Sawyer, who had done nothing but dodge round the group each with a tortoise shell lancet in his hand ready to bleed the first man stunned. Give it up, you wretched little critter, or I'll smother you in it. Odd by these threats and quite out of breath the independent suffered himself to be disarmed, and Mr. Weller, removing the extinguisher from Pot, set him free with a caution. You take yourselves off to bed quietly, said Sam, or I'll put you both in it and let you fight it out but the mouth tied, as I voted doesn't sitch if they played these games. And you have the goodness to come this here way, sir, if you please. Thus addressing his master, Sam took him by the arm and let him off while the rival editors were severally removed to their beds by the landlord under the inspection of Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Benjamin Allen, breathing as they went away many sanguinary threats in making vague appointments for mortal combat next day. When they came to think it over, however, it occurred to them that they could do it much better in print, so they recommend daily hostilities without delay and all eat and swell rung with their boldness on paper. They had taken themselves off in separate coaches early next morning before the other travelers were stirring, and the weather having now cleared up the Chays' companions once more turned their faces to London. End of Chapter 51 Chapter 52 of the Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens This liberal act's recording is in the public domain, recording by Deborah Lynn. The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens. Chapter 52 Involving a serious change in the Weller family and the untimely downfall of Mr. Stiggens Considering it a matter of delicacy to abstain from introducing either Bob Sawyer or Ben Allen to the young couple, until they were fully prepared to expect them and wishing to spare Arabella's feelings as much as possible, Mr. Pickwick proposed that he and Sam should alight in the neighborhood of the Georgian vulture, and that the two young men should, for the present, take up their quarters elsewhere. To this they very readily agreed, and the proposition was accordingly acted upon. Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer be taking themselves to a sequestered pot shop on the remotest confines of the borough, behind the bar door of which their names had, in other days, very often appeared at the head of long and complex calculations worked in white chalk. Dear me, Mr. Weller, said the pretty housemaid, meeting Sam at the door. Dear me, I wish it was, my dear, replied Sam, dropping behind to let his master get out of hearing. What a sweet-looking creedor you are, Mary. Lot, Mr. Weller, what nonsense you do talk, said Mary. Oh, don't, Mr. Weller. Don't what, my dear, said Sam. Why that? replied the pretty housemaid. Lord, do get along with you. Thus admonishing him, the pretty housemaid pushed Sam against the wall, declaring that he had tumbled her cap and put her hair quite out of curl, and prevented what I was going to say besides, added Mary. There's a letter been waiting here for you four days. You hadn't gone away half an hour when it came. And more than that, it's got immediate on the outside. There is it, my love, inquired Sam. I took care of it for you, or I dare say it would have been lost long before this, replied Mary. There, take it. It's more than you deserve. With these words, after many pretty little coquettish doubts and fears and wishes that she might not have lost it, Mary produced the letter from behind the nicest little Muslim Tucker possible, and handed it to Sam, who thereupon kissed it with much gallantry and devotion. My goodness me, said Mary, adjusting the Tucker and feigning unconsciousness. You seem to have grown very fond of it all at once. To this, Mr. Weller only replied by a wink, the intense meaning of which no description could convey the faintest idea of, and sitting himself down beside Mary on a window-seat, opened the letter and glanced at the contents. Oh, lo, exclaimed Sam, what's all this? Nothing the matter, I hope, said Mary, peeping over his shoulder. Bless them eyes, a yarn, said Sam, looking up. Never mind my eyes. You had much better read your letter, said the pretty housemaid. And as she said so, she made the eyes twinkle with such slowness and beauty that they were perfectly irresistible. Sam refreshed himself with a kiss and read as follows. Marcus Grandby, Dorkin, Wednesday. My dear Sammel, I am very sorry to have the pleasure of being a bear of ill news. Your mother-in-law, court-cold, consequence of imprudently setting too long on the damp grass in the rain, a hearing of a shepherd who weren't able to leave off till late at night, owned to his having, bound himself up with brandy and water, and not being able to stop his self till he got a little sober, which took him many hours to do. The doctor says that if she'd swallowed warm brandy and water artiards instead of a four, she mightn't have been no of us. Her veils thus immediately greased, and everything done to set her a-going, as could be unwanted. Your father had hopes as she would have verked round as usual, but just as she was a turn in the corner, my boy, she took the wrong road and bent downhill, with a velocity you never see, and notwithstanding that the drag was put on directly by the medical man, it warned of no use at all, for she paid the last pike at 20 minutes of four, six o'clock yesterday evening. Haven't done the journey very much under the regular time, which perhaps was partly owned to her having taken in very little luggage. By the way, your father says that if you will come and see me, Sammy, he will take it as a very great favor, for I am very lonely, Sammable, and be he will have it spelt that way, which I say ain't right, and as there is such a many things to settle, he is sure your governor won't object, of course, he will not, Sammy, for I knows him better, so he sends his duty, and which I join, and am, Sammable, infernal of yours, Tony Veller. What a incomprehensible letter, said Samm, who's to know what it means, with all this heeing and eyeing, it ain't my father's writing, except this here signature and print letters, that's his. Perhaps he got somebody to write it for him, and signed it himself afterwards, said the pretty housemaid. Stop a minute, replied Samm, running over the letter again, and pausing here and there to reflect, as he did so. You've hit it. The gentleman has wrote it was a tellin' all about the Miss Fortin in a proper vey, and then my father comes lookin' over him, and complicates the whole concern by puttin' his oar in. That's just the wary sorta thing he'd do. You're right, Mary, my dear. Having satisfied himself on this point, Samm read the letter all over once more, and appearing to form a clear notion of its contents for the first time, ejaculated thoughtfully as he folded it up, and so the poor creeders dead. I'm sorry for it. She warn't a bad disposed omen if them shepherds did let her alone. I'm wary sorry for it. Mr. Weller uttered these words in so serious a manner, that the pretty housemaid cast down her eyes, and looked very grave. Howsever, said Samm, putting the letter in his pocket with a gentle sigh, it was to be, and was, as the old lady said, utter she'd married the footman. Can't be helped now, can it, Mary? Mary shook her head and sighed, too. I must apply to the emperor for leave of absence, said Samm. Mary sighed again. The letter was so very affecting. Good-bye, said Samm. Good-bye rejoined as the pretty housemaid turning her head away. Well, shake hands, won't you, said Samm? The pretty housemaid put out a hand, which, although it was a housemaid's, was a very small one, and rose to go. I shan't be very long away, said Samm. You're always away, said Mary, giving her head the slightest possible toss in the air. You know sooner come, Mr. Weller, than you go again. Mr. Weller drew the household beauty closer to him, and entered upon a whispering conversation which had not proceeded far, when she turned her face round and condescended to look at him again. When they parted, it was somehow or other indispensably necessary for her to go to her room and arrange to the cap and curls before she could think of presenting herself to her mistress. Which preparatory ceremony she went off to perform, bestowing many nods and smiles on Samm over the banisters as she tripped upstairs. I shan't be of any more than a day or two, sir, at the furthest, said Samm, when he had communicated to Mr. Pickwick the intelligence of his father's loss. As long as may be necessary, Samm, replied Mr. Pickwick, you have my full permission to remain. Samm bowed. You will tell your father, Samm, that if I can be of any assistance to him in his present situation, I shall be most willing and ready to lend him any aid in my power, said Mr. Pickwick. Thank you, sir. Rejoined Samm. I'll mention it, sir. And with some expressions of mutual goodwill and interest, master and man separated. It was just seven o'clock when Sammuel Weller, a lighting from the box of a stagecoach which passed through dorking, stood within a few hundred yards of the Marquis of Granby. It was a cold, dull evening. The little street looked dreary and dismal, and the mahogany countenance of the noble and gallant Marquis seemed to wear a more sad and melancholy expression than it was want to do, as it swung to and fro, creaking mournfully in the wind. The blinds were pulled down, and the shutters partly closed. Of the knot of loungers that usually collected about the door, not one was to be seen. The place was silent and desolate. Seeing nobody of whom he could ask any preliminary questions, Sam walked softly in, and glancing round he quickly recognized his parent in the distance. The widower was seated at a small round table in the little room behind the bar, smoking a pipe with his eyes intently fixed upon the fire. The funeral had evidently taken place that day for attached to his hat, which he still retained on his head, was a hat-band measuring about a yard and a half in length, which hung over the top rail of the chair and streamed negligently down. Mr. Weller was in a very abstracted and contemplative mood. Knot was standing, that Sam called him by name several times. He still continued to smoke with the same fixed and quiet countenance, and was only roused ultimately by his sons placing a palm of his hand on his shoulder. Sammy, said Mr. Weller, you're welcome. I've been a-calling to you half a dozen times, said Sam, hanging his hat on a peg, but you didn't hear me. No, Sammy, replied Mr. Weller, again looking thoughtfully at the fire. I was in a referee, Sammy. What about, inquired Sam, drawing his chair up to the fire? In a referee, Sammy, replied the elder Mr. Weller, regarding her, Sammable. Here Mr. Weller jerked his head in the direction of dorking churchyard, in mute explanation that his words referred to the late Mrs. Weller. I was a-thinkin', Sammy, said Mr. Weller, eyeing his son with great earnestness over his pipe, as if to assure him that however extraordinary and incredible the declaration might appear, it was nevertheless calmly and deliberately uttered. I was a-thinkin', Sammy, that upon the whole I was very sorry she was gone. Vel, and so you ought to be, replied Sam. Mr. Weller nodded his acquiescence in the sentiment, and again fastening his eyes on the fire, shrouded himself in a cloud and mused deeply. Those was very sensible observations as she made, Sammy, said Mr. Weller, driving the smoke away with his hand after a long silence. What observations, inquired Sam? Them as she made, utter she was took ill, replied the old gentleman. What was they? Something to this here effect. Weller, she says, I'm a-feared I have not done by you quite what I ought to have done. You are a very kind-hearted man, and I might have made your home more comfortabler. I begin to see now, she says, but it's too late, that if a married woman wishes to be religious, she should begin with discharging her duties at home and making them, as it is about her, cheerful and happy, and that while she goes to church or chapel or whatnot at all proper times, she should be very careful not to convert this sort of thing into an excuse for idleness or self-indulgence. I have done this, she says, and I've wasted time and substance on them as has done it more than me. But I hope when I'm gone, Weller, that you'll think on me as I was before I know to them people and as I really was by nature. Susan, says I, I was took up weary short by this Sammel, I won't deny it, my boy. Susan, I says, you've been a very good wife to me altogether, don't say nothing at all about it, keep a good heart, my dear, and you'll live to see me punch that air-stiggens his head yet. She smiled at this Sammel, said the old gentleman stifling a sigh with his pipe, but she died at her all. Vel, said Sam, venturing to offer a little homely consolation, after the lapse of three or four minutes, consumed by the old gentleman and slowly shaking his head from side to side and solemnly smoking. Vel, Governor, we must all come to it one day or another. So we must, Sammy, said Mr. Weller, the elder. There's a providence in it all, said Sam. Of course there is, replied his father, with an out-of-grave approval. What had become of the undertakers without it, Sammy? Lost in the immense field of conjecture opened by this reflection, the elder Mr. Weller laid his pipe on the table and stirred the fire with a meditative visage. While the old gentleman was thus engaged, a very buxom-looking cook, dressed in mourning, who had been bustling about in the bar, glided into the room and bestowing many smirks of recognition upon Sam, silently stationed herself at the back of his father's chair, and announced her presence by a slight cough, the which, being disregarded, was followed by a louder one. Polo, said the elder Mr. Weller, dropping the poker as he looked round, and hastily drew his chair away. What's the matter now? Have a cup of tea. There's a good soul, replied the buxom-female coaxingly. I won't, replied Mr. Weller in a somewhat boisterous manner. I'll see you, Mr. Weller hastily checked himself and added in a low tone, furter, fussed. Oh, dear, dear, how adversely does change people, said the lady looking upwards. It's the only thing to exist in the doctorish shall change my condition, muttered Mr. Weller. I really never saw a man so cross, said the buxom-female. Never mind, it's all for my own good. Vitch is the reflection. Vithvitch, the penitent schoolboy, comforted his feelings, then they flogged him, rejoined the old gentleman. The buxom-female shook her head with a compassionate and sympathizing air, and appealing to Sam, inquired whether his father really ought not to make an effort to keep up and not give way to that loneness of spirits. You see, Mr. Samuel, said the buxom-female, as I was telling him yesterday, he will feel lonely. He can't expect what he should, sir, but he should keep up a good heart, because, dear me, I'm sure we all pity his loss, and are ready to do anything for him, and there's no situation in life so bad, Mr. Samuel, that it can't be mended. Which is what a very worthy person said to me when my husband died. Hear the speaker putting her hand before her mouth, coughed again, and looked affectionately at the elder Mr. Weller. As I don't require any of your conversation just now, Mom, though you have the goodness to retire, inquired Mr. Weller, in a grave and steady voice. Well, Mr. Weller, said the buxom-female, I'm sure I only spoke to you out of kindness. Very likely, Mom, replied Mr. Weller. Samuel will show the lady out and shut the door after her. This hint was not lost upon the buxom-female, for she at once left the room and slammed the door behind her, upon which Mr. Weller's senior, falling back in his chair in a violent perspiration, said, Sammy, if I was to stop here alone one week, only one week, my boy, that our woman had married me by force and violence before it was over. What? Is she so wary-fond on you, inquired Sam? Fond, replied his father, I can't keep her away from me. If I was locked up in a fire-proof chest with a patent brahmin, she'd find means to get at me, Sammy. What a thing it is to be so sought after, observed Sam, smiling. I don't take no pride out in it, Sammy, replied Mr. Weller, poking the fire vehemently. It's a horrid situation. I'm actively drove out of house and home by it. The breath was scarcely out of your poor mother-in-law's body, then one old woman sends me upon a jam, and another upon jelly, and another bruise of blessed large jug of chamomile tea that she brings in with her own hands. Mr. Weller paused with an aspect of intense disgust. And looking round, added in a whisper, There was all widders, Sammy, all on them, except the chamomile tea-von, as was a single young lady of fifty-three. Sam gave a comical look and reply, and the old gentleman, having broken an obstinate lump of coal, with a countenance expressive of as much earnestness and malice as if it had been the head of one of the widow's last mentions, said, In short, Sammy, I feel that I ain't safe, any where's but on the box. How are you safer there than any where's else? interrupted, Sam, because a coachman's a privileged individual, replied Mr. Weller, looking fixedly at his son, because a coachman may do without suspicion what other men may not, because a coachman may be on the weary amicable his terms with eighty-mile of females, and yet nobody think that he ever means to marry any-von among them, and what other man can say the same, Sammy? Well, there's something in that, said Sam. If your governor had been a coachman, reasoned Mr. Weller, do you suppose, as that heir-jury, had ever hucked and witted him, supposing it possible as the matter could have gone to that extremity, they dusted had done it? Why not? said Sam, rather disparagingly. Why not? rejoined Mr. Weller, because it had gone again their consciences. A regular coachman's a sort of connect and link between singleness and matrimony, and every practicable man knows it. What? You mean their general favorites, and nobody takes advantage on them, perhaps, said Sam? His father nodded. How would ever come to that heir-pass, resumed the parent Weller? I can't say. Why it is that long-stage coachman possess such insinuations, and as always looked up to, adored I may say, by every young woman in every town he verks through, I don't know. I only know that so it is. It's a regulation of nature. A dispensary, as your poor mother-in-law used to say. A dispensation, said Sam, correcting the old gentleman. Very good, Sammable, a dispensation, if you like it better. Return, Mr. Weller, I call it a dispensary, and it's always rid up so, at the places where they gives you physics for nothing in your own bottles, that's all. With these words Mr. Weller refilled and relighted his pipe, and once more summoning up a meditative expression of countenance continued as follows. Therefore, my boy, as I do not see the advice ability as stopping here to be married whether I want to or not, and as at the same time I do not wish to separate myself from them interested members of society altogether, I have come to the determination of driving the safety, and putting up once more at the bell savage, which is my natural-born element, Sammy, and watched become of the business, inquired Sam. The business, Sammable, replied the old gentleman, Goodville, stock, and fixtures will be sold by private contract, and out of the money, two hundred pound, agreeable to a recvest of your mother-in-law's to me, a little afore she died, will be invested in your name, and what do you call them things again? What things, inquired Sam? Them things as is always a going up and down in the city. Omnibuses, suggested Sam. Nonsense, replied Mr. Weller. Them things as is always a fluctuating and getting their selves involved somehow or another with the national debt and the checkers bill and all that. Oh, the funds, said Sam. Ah, rejoined Mr. Weller, the funds. Two hundred pounds of the money is to be invested for you, Sammable, and the funds. Four and a half percent reduced counsel, Sammy. Where he kind of the old lady to think of me, said Sam, and I'm very much obliged to her. The rest will be invested in my name, continued the elder, Mr. Weller, and when I'm took off the road it'll come to you, so take care you don't spend it all at once, my boy, and mind that no witter gets an inkling of your fortune or your done. Having delivered this warning, Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with a more serene countenance. The disclosure of these matters appearing to have eased his mind considerably. Somebody's a-tapping at the door, said Sam. Let him tap, replied his father with dignity. Sam acted upon the direction. There was another tap and another, and then a long row of taps, upon which Sam inquired why the tapper was not admitted. Hush, whispered Mr. Weller with apprehensive looks. Don't take no notice on him, Sammy. It's one of the witter's praps. No notice being taken of the taps. The unseen visitor, after a short lapse, ventured to open the door and peep in. It was no female head that was thrust in at the partially open door, but the long black locks and red face of Mr. Stiggins, Mr. Weller's pipe fell from his hands. The reverend gentleman gradually opened the door by almost imperceptible degrees, until the aperture was just wide enough to admit of the passage of his leg-body, when he glided into the room and closed it after him with great care and gentleness. Turning towards Sam and raising his hands and eyes in token of the unspeakable sorrow, with which he regarded the calamity that had befallen the family, he carried the high-back chair to his old corner by the fire, and seating himself on the very edge, drew forth a brown pocket handkerchief and applied the same to his optics. While this was going forward, the elder Mr. Weller sat back in his chair with his eyes wide open, his hands planted on his knees, and his whole countenance expressive of absorbing and overwhelming astonishment. Sam sat opposite him in perfect silence, waiting with eager curiosity for the termination of the scene. Mr. Stiggins kept the brown pocket handkerchief before his eyes for some minutes, moaning decently meanwhile, and then mastering his feelings by a strong effort, put it in his pocket and buttoned it up. After this he stirred the fire. After that he rubbed his hands and looked at Sam. Oh, my young friend, said Mr. Stiggins, breaking the silence in a very low voice. Here's a sorrowful affliction. Sam nodded very slightly. For the man of wrath, too, added Mr. Stiggins. It makes a vessel's heart bleed. Mr. Weller was overheard by his son to murmur something relative to making a vessel's nose bleed, but Mr. Stiggins heard him not. Do you know young man, whispered Mr. Stiggins, drawing his chair closer to Sam? Whether she has left Emanuel anything? Who's he? inquired Sam. The chapel, replied Mr. Stiggins. Our chapel, our fold, Mr. Samuel. She hasn't left the fold nothing, nor the shepherd nothing, nor the animals nothing, said Sam decisively, nor the dogs neither. Mr. Stiggins looked slyly at Sam, glanced at the old gentleman who was sitting with his eyes closed as if asleep, and drawing his chair still nearer said, Nothing for me, Mr. Samuel? Sam shook his head. I think there's something, said Stiggins, turning as pale as he could turn. Consider, Mr. Samuel, no little token. Not so much as the birth of that era-old umbrella, your'n, replied Sam. Perhaps, said Mr. Stiggins hesitatingly after a few moments deep thought, perhaps she recommended me to the care of the man of wrath, Mr. Samuel. I think that's where he likely from what he said rejoined Sam. He was speaking about you just now. Was he, though? exclaimed Mr. Stiggins, brightening up. He's changed, I daresay. We might live very comfortably together now, Mr. Samuel. Eh? I could take care of his property when you are away. Good care, you see. Keeping a long-drawn sigh, Mr. Stiggins paused for a response. Sam nodded, and Mr. Weller the Elder gave vent to an extraordinary sound, which, being neither a groan nor a grunt nor a gasp nor a growl, seemed to partake in some degree of the character of all four. Mr. Stiggins, encouraged by this sound, which he understood to be token remorse or repentance, looked about him, rubbed his hands, wept, smiled, wept again, and then, walking softly across the room to a well-remembered shelf in one corner, took down a tumbler, and with great deliberation put four lumps of sugar in it. Having got thus far, he looked about him again and sighed grievously. With that, he walked softly into the bar, and, presently returning with the tumbler half full of pineapple rum, advanced to the kettle, which was seeing gaily on the hob, mixed his grog, stirred it, sipped it, sat down, and, taking a long and hardy pull at the rum and water, stopped for breath. The Elder Mr. Weller, who still continued to make various strange and uncouth attempts to appear asleep, offered not a single word during these proceedings. But when Stiggins stopped for breath, he darted upon him and snatched the tumbler from his hand through the remainder of the rum and water in his face and the glass itself into the grate. Then, seizing the Reverend Gentleman firmly by the collar, he suddenly fell to kicking him most furiously, accompanying every application of his top boot to Mr. Stiggins' person with sundry violent and incoherent anathemas upon his limbs, eyes, and body. Sammy, said Mr. Weller, put my hand on tight for me. Sam dutifully adjusted the hat with a long hat band more firmly on his father's head, and the old Gentleman, resuming his kicking with greater agility than before, tumbled with Mr. Stiggins through the bar and through the passage out at the front door and so into the street, the kicking continuing the whole way and increasing enviomence rather than diminishing every time the top boot was lifted. It was a beautiful and exhilarating sight to see the red-nosed man writhing in Mr. Weller's grasp and his whole frame quivering with anguish as kick followed kick in rapid succession. It was a still more exciting spectacle to behold Mr. Weller after a powerful struggle immersing Mr. Stiggins' head in a horse trough full of water and holding it there until he was half suffocated. There, said Mr. Weller, throwing all his energy into one most complicated kick, as he at length permitted Mr. Stiggins to withdraw his head from the trough, send any one of them lazy shepherds here and I'll pound him to a jelly first and drown him out of urge. Sammy, help me in and fill me a small glass of brandy. I'm out of breath, my boy. End of Chapter 52