 7 How Mr. Winkle, instead of shooting at the pigeon, and killing the crow, shot at the crow, and wounded the pigeon, how the Dingley-Dell Cricket Club played all Muggleton, and how all Muggleton dined at the Dingley-Dell expense, with other interesting and instructive matters. The fatiguing adventures of the day, or the sumniferous influence of the clergyman's tale, operated so strongly on the drowsy tendencies of Mr. Pigwick, that in less than five minutes after he had been shown to his comfortable bedroom, he fell into a sound and dreamless sleep, from which he was only awakened by the morning sun darting his bright beams reproachfully into the apartment. Mr. Pigwick was no-sluggered, and he sprang like an ardent warrior from his tent bed-stead. Pleasant, pleasant country sighed the enthusiastic gentleman as he opened his lattice window. Who could live to gaze from day to day on bricks and slates, who had once felt the influence of a scene like this? Who could continue to exist, where there are no cows, but the cows on the chimney-pots? Nothing redolent of pan-but-pan-tiles? No crop but stone-crop? Who could bear to drag out a life in such a spot? Who, I ask, could endure it? And having cross-examined solitude after the most approved precedence at considerable length, Mr. Pigwick thrust his head out of the lattice and looked around him. The rich sweet smell of the hay-ricks rose to his chamber window. The hundred perfumes of the little flower-garden beneath scented the air-round. The deep green meadow shone in the morning dew that glistened on every leaf as it trembled in the gentle air, and the birds sang as if every sparkling drop were to them a fountain of inspiration. Mr. Pigwick fell into an enchanting and delicious reverie. "'Hello!' was the sound that roused him. He looked to the right, but he saw nobody. His eyes wandered to the left, and pierced the prospect. He stared into the sky, but he wasn't wanted there, and then he did what a common mind would have done at once—looked into the garden, and there saw Mr. Wardle. "'How are you?' said the good, humored individual, out of breath with his own anticipations of pleasure. "'Beautiful morning, ain't it? Glad to see you up so early. Make haste down and come out. I'll wait for you here.' Mr. Pigwick needed no second invitation. Ten minutes suffice for the completion of his toilet, and at the expiration of that time he was by the old gentleman's side. "'Hello!' said Mr. Pigwick in his churn, seeing that his companion was armed with a gun, and that another lay ready on the grass. What's going forward?' "'Why, your friend and I,' replied the host, are going out rook-shooting before breakfast. He's a very good shot, ain't he? I've heard him say he's a capital one,' replied Mr. Pigwick, but I never saw him aim at anything. "'Well, I wish he'd come,' said the host. "'Joe! Joe!' The fat boy, who under the exciting influence of the morning did not appear to be more than three parts in a fraction of sleep, emerged from the house. Go up and call the gentleman, and tell him he'll find me and Mr. Pigwick in the rookery. Show the gentleman the way there. Do you hear?' The boy departed to execute his commission, and the host, carrying both guns like a second Robinson Crusoe, led the way from the garden. This is the place, said the old gentleman, pausing after a few minutes walking, in an avenue of trees. The information was unnecessary for the incessant calling of the unconscious rook sufficiently indicated their whereabouts. The old gentleman laid one gun on the ground, and loaded the other. Here they are, said Mr. Pigwick, and as he spoke, the forms of Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle appeared in the distance. The fat boy, not being quite certain which gentleman he was directed to call, had with peculiar sagacity, and to prevent the possibility of any mistake, called them all. "'Come along,' shouted the old gentleman, addressing Mr. Winkle, "'a keen hand like you ought to have been up long ago, even to such poor work as this.' Mr. Winkle responded with a forced smile, and took up the spare gun with an expression of countenance, which a metaphysical rook, impressed with the foreboding of his approaching death by violence, may be supposed to assume. It might have been keenness, but it looked remarkably like misery. The old gentleman nodded, and two ragged boys, who had been marshaled to the spot under the direction of the infant Lambert, forthwith commenced climbing up two of the trees. What are these lads for, inquired Mr. Pigwick abruptly? He was rather alarmed, for he was not quite certain, but that the distress of the agricultural interest about which he had often heard a great deal, might have compelled the small boys attached to the soil to earn a precarious and hazardous subsistence by making marks of themselves for inexperienced sportsmen. "'Only to start the game,' replied Mr. Vortle, laughing. "'To what?' inquired Mr. Pigwick. "'Why, in plain English, to frighten the rooks. "'Oh, is that all? You were satisfied? Quite. "'Very well, shall I begin? If you please,' said Mr. Winkle, glad of any respite. "'Stand aside, then. Now, for it!' The boys shouted and shook a branch with a nest on it. Half a dozen young rooks and violent conversation flew out to ask what the matter was. The old gentleman fired by way of reply. Down fell one bird and off flew the others. "'Take him up, Joe,' said the old gentleman. There was a smile upon the youth's face as he advanced. Indistinct visions of rook-pie floated through his imagination. He laughed as he retired with the bird. It was a plump one. "'Now, Mr. Winkle,' said the host, reloading his own gun. Fire away.' Mr. Winkle advanced and leveled his gun. Mr. Pickwick and his friends cowered involuntarily to escape damage from the heavy fall of rooks, which they felt quite certain would be occasioned by the devastating barrel of their friend. There was a solemn pause, a shout, a flapping of wings, a faint click. "'Hello,' said the old gentleman. "'Won't it go?' inquired Mr. Pickwick. "'Mr. Fire,' said Mr. Winkle, who was very pale, probably from disappointment. "'Odd,' said the old gentleman, taking the gun, never knew one of them to misfire before. "'Why, I don't see anything of the cap.' "'Blessed my soul,' said Mr. Winkle. "'I declare I forgot the cap.'" The slight omission was rectified. Mr. Pickwick crouched again. Mr. Winkle stepped forward with an air of determination and resolution, and Mr. Tutman looked out from behind a tree. The boy shouted. Four birds flew out. Mr. Winkle fired. There was a scream as of an individual, not a rook in corporeal anguish. Mr. Tutman had saved the lives of innumerable of unoffending birds by receding a portion of the charge in his left arm. To describe the confusion that ensued would be impossible. To tell how Mr. Pickwick in the first transports of motion called Mr. Winkle wretch, how Mr. Tutman lay prostrate on the ground, and how Mr. Winkle knelt horrestrican beside him, how Mr. Tutman called distractively upon some feminine Christian name, and then opened first one eye, and then the other, and then fell back and shut them both. All this would be as difficult to describe in detail as it would be to depict the gradual recovering of the unfortunate individual, the binding up of his arm with a pocket handker shifts, and the conveying him back by slow degrees supported by the arms of his anxious friends. They drew near the house. The ladies were at the garden gate, waiting for their arrival and their breakfast. The spinster Anne appeared. She smiled and beckoned them to walk quicker. To his evidence she knew nothing of the disaster. Poor thing! There are times when ignorance is bliss indeed. They approached nearer. Why, what is the matter with the little old gentleman, said Isabella Wardle? The spinster Anne heeded not the remark. She thought it applied to Mr. Pickwick. In her eyes Tracy Tutman was a youth. She viewed his years through a diminishing glass. Don't be frightened, called out the old host, fearful of alarming his daughters. The little party had crowded so completely around Mr. Tutman that they could not yet clearly discern the nature of the accident. Don't be frightened, said the host. What's the matter, screamed the ladies? Mr. Tutman has met with a little accident, that's all. The spinster Anne uttered a piercing scream, burst into a hysteric laugh, and fell backwards in the arms of her nieces. Throw some cold water over her, said the old gentleman. No, no, murmured the spinster Anne. I am better now. Bella, Emily, a surgeon! Is he wounded? Is he dead? Is he—? Ha, ha, ha! Here the spinster Anne burst into fit number two of hysteric laughter interspersed with screams. Calm yourself, said Mr. Tutman, affected almost to tears by this expression of sympathy with the sufferings. Dear, dear, madame, calm yourself. It is his voice exclaimed the spinster Anne, and strong symptoms of fit number three developed themselves forthwith. Do not agitate yourself. I entreat you, dearest madame, said Mr. Tutman soothingly. I am very little hurt, I assure you. Then you are not dead, ejaculated hysterical lady. Oh, say you are not dead! Don't be a fool, Rachel, interposed Mr. Wardle, rather more roughly than was consistent with the poetic nature of the scene. Not the devil's the use of his saying he isn't dead. No, no, I am not, said Mr. Tutman. I required no assistance, but yours. Let me lean on your arm, he added in a whisper. Oh, Miss Rachel, the agitated female, advanced and offered her arm. They returned to the breakfast parlor. Mr. Tracy Tutman gently pressed her hand to his lips and sank upon the sofa. Are you faint, inquired the anxious Rachel? No, said Mr. Tutman. It is nothing. I shall be better presently. He closed his eyes. He sleeps, murmured the spinster Anne. His organs of vision have been closed nearly twenty seconds. Dear, dear, Mr. Tutman. Mr. Tutman jumped up. Oh, say those words again, he exclaimed. The lady started. Surely you did not hear them, she said bashfully. Oh, yes I did, replied Mr. Tutman. Repeat them. If you would have me recover, repeat them. Hush, said the lady, my brother. Mr. Tracy Tutman resumed his former position, and Mr. Wardle, accompanied by a surgeon, entered the room. The arm was examined, the wound dressed, and pronounced to be a very slight one, in the minds of the company having been thus satisfied, they proceeded to satisfy their appetites with countenances, to which an expression of cheerfulness was again restored. Mr. Pigwick alone was silent and reserved. Doubt and distrust were exhibited in his countenance. His confidence in Mr. Winkle had been shaken—greatly shaken—by the proceedings of the morning. Are you a cricketer, inquired Mr. Wardle of the marksman? At any other time Mr. Winkle would have replied in the affirmative. He felt the delicacy of his situation, and modestly replied, No. Are you, sir, inquired Mr. Snodgrass? I was once upon a time, replied the host, but I have given it up now. I subscribe to the club here, but I don't play. The grand match is to be played today, I believe, said Mr. Pigwick. It is, replied the host. Of course you would like to see it. I, sir, replied Mr. Pigwick, am delighted to view any sports which may be safely indulged in, and in which the impotent effects of unskillful people do not endanger human life. Mr. Pigwick paused and looked steadily on Mr. Winkle, who quailed beneath his leader's searching glance. The great man withdrew his eyes after a few minutes and added, Shall we be justified in leaving our wounded friend to the care of the ladies? You cannot leave me in better hands, said Mr. Tubman. Quite impossible, said Mr. Snodgrass. It was therefore settled that Mr. Tubman should be left at home in charge of the females, and that the remainder of the guests under the guidance of Mr. Wardle should proceed to the spot where it was to be held that trial of skill which had roused all Muggleton from its torpor, and inoculated Dingley Dowell with a fever of excitement. As their walk, which was not above two miles long, lay through shady lanes and sequestered footpaths, and as their conversation turned upon the delightful scenery by which they were on every side surrounded, Mr. Pigwick was almost inclined to regret the expedition they had used when he found himself in the main street of the town of Muggleton. Everybody whose genius has a topographical bent knows perfectly well that Muggleton is a corporate town, with a mayor, burgesses, and freemen. And anybody who has consulted the addresses of the mayor to the freemen, or the freemen to the mayor, or both to the corporation, of all three to parliament, will learn from thence what they ought to have known before, that Muggleton is an ancient and loyal borough mingling a zealous advocacy of Christian principles with a devoted attachment to commercial rights. In demonstration whereof, the mayor, corporation, and other inhabitants have presented at diverse times, no fewer than 1,420 petitions against the continuance of Negro slavery abroad, and an equal number against any interference with the factory system at home, sixty-eight in favor of the sale of livings in the church, and eighty-six for abolishing Sunday trading in the street. Mr. Pigwick stood in the principal street of this illustrious town, engaged with an air of curiosity, not unmixed with interest on the objects around him. There was an open square for the marketplace, and in the center of it a large inn with a signpost in front, displaying an object for a common art, but rarely met with the nature, to wit a blue lion with three bow legs in the air, balancing himself on the extreme point of the center claw of his fourth foot. There were within sight, in auctioneers and fire agency office, a corn factor, a linen draper, a sadler, a distillers, a grocers, and a shoe shop, the last mentioned warehouse, being also appropriated to the diffusion of hats, bonnets, wearing apparel, cotton umbrellas, and useful knowledge. There was a red brick house with a small paved courtyard in front, which anybody might have known belonged to the attorney. And there was, moreover, another red brick house with Venetian blinds, and a large brass door plate with a very legible announcement that it belonged to the surgeon. A few boys were making their way to the cricket field, and two or three shopkeepers who were standing at their doors looked as if they should like to be making their way to the same spot, as indeed to all appearance they might have done without losing any great amount of custom nearby. Mr. Pickwick having paused to make these observations, to be noted down at a more convenient period, hastened to rejoin his friends who had turned out of the Main Street, and were already within sight of the field of battle. The wickets were pitched, and so were a couple of marquise for the rest and refreshment of the contending parties. The game had not yet commenced. Two or three dingley-dellars, and all muggletonians, were amusing themselves with majestic air by throwing the ball carelessly from hand to hand, and several other gentlemen dressed like them in straw hats, flannel jackets, and white trousers, a costume in which they looked very much like amateur stone masons, were sprinkled about the tents towards one of which Mr. Wardle conducted the party. Several dozen of how-are-yous held the old gentleman's arrival, and a general raising of the straw hats and binning forward of the flannel jackets, followed his introduction of his guests as gentlemen from London, who were extremely anxious to witness the proceedings of the day, with which he had no doubt they would be greatly delighted. You'd better step into the marquee, I think, sir, said one very stout gentleman, whose body and legs looked like half a gigantic roll of flannel, elevated on a couple of inflated pillowcases. You'll find it much pleasanter, sir, urged another stout gentleman, who strongly resembled the other half of the roll of flannel, aforesaid. You're very good, said Mr. Pickwick. This way, said the first speaker, they notch in here, it's the best place in the whole fields, and the cricketer, panting on before, preceded them to the tent. Capital games, smart sport, fine exercise vary, were the words which fell upon Mr. Pickwick's ear as he entered the tent, and the first object that met his eyes was his green-coated friend of the Rochester coach, holding forth to the no small delight and edification of a select circle of the chosen of all Muckleton. His dress was slightly improved, and he wore boots, but there was no mistaking him. The stranger recognized his friends immediately, and darting forward and seizing Mr. Pickwick by the hand, dragged him to a seat with his usual impetuosity, talking all the while as if the whole of the arrangements were under his special patronage and direction. This way, this way, capital fun, lots of beer, hogs' heads, rounds of beef, bullocks, mustard, cartloads. Glorious day, down with you, make yourself at home, glad to see you vary. Mr. Pickwick sat down as he was bid, and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass also complied with the directions of their mysterious friend. Mr. Wardle looked on in silent wonder. Mr. Wardle? A friend of mine, said Mr. Pickwick. Friend of yours, my dear sir, how are you? Friend of my friends, give me your hands, sir, and the stranger grasped Mr. Wardle's hand with all the fervor of a close intimacy of many years, and then set back a pace or two as if to take a full survey of his face and figure, and then shook hands with him again, if possible, more warmly than ever. Well, and how came you here, said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile in which benevolence struggled with surprise. Come, replied the stranger, stopping at Crown, Crown at Muggleton, Meta Party, Flannel Jackets, White Trousers, and Chovy Sandwiches, deviled kidney splendid fellows, glorious. Mr. Pickwick was sufficiently versed in the stranger's system of stenography to infer from this rapid and disjointed communication that he had somehow or other contracted an acquaintance with the all Muggletons, which he had converted by a process peculiar to himself, and to that extent of good fellowship on which general invitation may be easily founded. His curiosity was therefore satisfied, and putting on a spectacle, he prepared himself to watch the play which was just commencing. All Muggleton had the first innings, and the interest became intense when Mr. Dumkins and Mr. Potter, two of the most renowned members of that most distinguished club, walked bat in hand to their respective wickedness. Mr. Luffy, the highest ornament of Dingley Dell, was pitched to bowl against the redoubtable Dumkins, and Mr. Struggles was selected to do the same kind office for the hitherto unconquered Potter. Several players were stationed to look out in different parts of the field, and each fixed himself into the proper attitude by placing one hand on each knee, and stooping very much as if you were making a back for some beginner at leapfrog. All the regular players do this sort of thing. Indeed, it is generally supposed that it is quite impossible to look out properly in any other position. The empires were stationed behind the wickets, the scorers were prepared to notch the runs, a breathless silence ensued. Mr. Luffy retired a few paces behind the wicket of the passive Potter, and applied the ball to his right eye for several seconds. Dumkins confidently awaited its coming, with his eyes fixed on the motions of Luffy. Play! Suddenly cried the bowler. The ball flew from his hands straight and swift toward the center stump of the wicket. The wary Dumkins was on the alert, fell upon the tip of the bat, and bound it far away over the heads of the scouts who had just stooped low enough to let it fly over them. Run, run, another, now then throw her up! Up with her, stop there, another! No, yes, no, throw her up, throw her up! Such were the shouts which followed the stroking at the conclusion of which all Muggleton had scored two. Nor was Potter behind hand in earning laurels, wherewith, to garnish himself in Muggleton. He blocked the doubtful balls, missed the bad ones, took the good ones, and set them flying to all parts of the field. The scouts were hot and tired, the bowlers were changed and bowled till their arms ached, but Dumkins and Potter remained unconquered. They did an elderly gentleman essay to stop the progress of the ball. It rolled between his legs or slipped between his fingers. Did a slim gentleman try to catch it, it struck him on the nose, and bounded pleasantly off with redoubled violence, while the slim gentleman's eyes filled with water and his form writhed with anguish. Was it thrown straight up to the wicket, Dumkins had reached it before the ball. In short, when Dumkins was caught out and Potter stumped out, all Muggleton had notched some fifty-four while the score of the Dingley-Dellars was as blank as their faces. The advantage was too great to be recovered. Embainded, the eager Luffy and the enthusiastic Struggles do all that skill and experience could suggest to regain the ground Dingley-Dell had lost in the contest. It was of no avail, and in the early period of the winning game Dingley-Dell gave in and allowed the superior prowess of all Muggleton. The stranger, meanwhile, had been eating, drinking and talking without cessation, and every good stroke he expressed his satisfaction and approval of the player in a most condescending and patronizing manner, which could not fail to have been highly gratifying to the party concerned. While at every bad attempt at a catch and every failure to stop the ball, he launched his personal displeasure at the head of the devoted individual in such denunciations as, ah, ah, stupid, now butterfingers, mouff, humbug, and so forth. Jackulations, which seemed to establish him in the opinion of all around, as the most excellent and undeniable judge of the whole art and mystery of the noblegrain of cricket. Capital game, well played. Some strokes admirable, said the stranger as both sides crowded into the tent at the conclusion of the game. You've played it, sir, inquired Mr. Wardle, who had been much amused by his locacity. Played it? Think I have? Thousands of times. Not here. West Indies. Exciting thing. Hot work, very. It must be rather a warm pursuit in such a climate, observed Mr. Pickwick. Warm, red hot, scorching, glowing, played a match. One single wicket. Friend, the Colonel, Sir Thomas Blazo, who should get the greatest number of runs. Won the toss first inning, seven o'clock a.m. Six natives to look out, win in, kept in. Heat intense. Natives all fainted, taken away. Fresh half dozen ordered, fainted also. Blazo, bowling, supported by two natives, couldn't bowl me out. Fainted two, cleared away the Colonel. Wouldn't give in, faithful, attended. Quanko Samba, last men left. Sunso hot, batten blisters, balls scorched brown. Five hundred and seventy runs, rather exhausted. Quanko mustered up last remaining strength, bowled me out, had a bath, and went out to dinner. And what became of what's his name, sir, inquired an old gentleman. Blazo? Know the other gentleman. Quanko Samba? Yes, sir. Poor Quanko never recovered it, bowled on him. I count, bowled off on his own. Died, sir. Here the stranger buried his countenance in a brown judge, but whether to hide his emotion or imbibe its contents, we cannot distinctly affirm. We only know that he paused suddenly, drew a long and deep breath, and looked anxiously on as two of the principal members of the Dingley Dahl Club approached Mr. Pigwick and said, we are about to partake of a plain dinner at the Blue Lion, sir. We hope you and your friends will join us. Of course, said Mr. Wardle, among our friends we include Mr. and he looked toward the stranger. Jingle, said that versatile gentleman, taking the hint at once, jingle, afood, jingle, Esquire of no hall, no where. I shall be very happy, I am sure, said Mr. Pigwick. So shall I, said Mr. Alfred Jingle, drawing one arm through Mr. Pigwick's and another through Mr. Wardle's, as he whispered confidently in the ear of the former gentleman, devilish good dinner, cold but capital, peeped into the room this morning, bowels and pies and all that sort of thing. Pleasant fellows these, well behaved, too, very. There being no further preliminaries to arrange, the company straggled into the town a little knots of twos and threes, and within a quarter of an hour were all seated in the great room with the blue lion in, Muggleton, Mr. Dumkin's acting as chairman, and Mr. Luffy officiating as vice. There was a vast deal of talking and rattling of knives and forks and plates, a great running about of three ponderous-headed waiters, and a rapid disappearance of the substantial vines on the table, to each and every of which, item of confusion, the festations Mr. Jingle lent the aid of a half dozen ordinary men, at least. When everybody had eaten as much as possible, the cloth was removed, bottles, glasses, and dessert were placed on the table, and the waiters withdrew to clear away, or in other words, to appropriate to their own private use an emulent whatever remnants of the eatables and drinkables they could contrive to lay their hands on. Amidst the general hum of mirth and conversation that ensued, there was a little man with a puffy say nothing to me or all contradict you sort of countenance, who remained very quiet, occasionally looking round him when the conversation slackened, as if he contemplated putting in something very weighty, and now in them burst into a short cough of inexpressible grandeur. At length, during a moment of comparative silence, the little man called out in a very loud, solemn voice, Mr. Luffy. Everybody was hushed into a profound stillness, as the individual addressed, replied, Sir. I wish to address a few words to you, Sir, if you will entreat the gentleman to fill their glasses. Mr. Jingle uttered a patronizing here, here, which was responded to by the remainder of the company, and the glasses having been filled, the vice-president assumed an air of wisdom and a state of profound attention, and said, Mr. Staples. Sir, said the little man rising, I wish to address what I have to say to you, and not to our worthy chairman, because our worthy chairman is in some measure, I may say, in a great degree, the subject of what I have to say, or I may say, to state, suggested Mr. Jingle. Yes, to state, said the little man. I think my honorable friend, if he will allow me to call him so, four here is in one, certainly, for Mr. Jingle, for the suggestion. Sir, I am a duller, a dingly duller. Cheers! I cannot lay claim to the honor of forming an item in the population of Muggleton, nor, sir, I will frankly admit, do I covet that honor? And I will tell you why, sir. Here. To Muggleton I will readily concede all these honors and distinctions to which you can fairly lay claim. They are too numerous and too well known to require aid or recapitulation from me. But, sir, while we remember that Muggleton has given birth to a dumpkin's and a potter, let us never forget that Dingley Dow can boast a lofty and a struggle's, vociferous cheering. Let me not be considered as wishing to detract from the merits of the former gentlemen, sir, I envy them the luxury of their own feelings on this occasion. Cheers! Every gentleman who hears me is probably acquainted with the reply made by an individual who, to use an ordinary figure of speech, hung out in a tub to the emperor Alexander. If I were not Diogenes, said he, I would be Alexander. I can well imagine these gentlemen to say, if I were not dumpkin's, I would be lofty. If I were not potter, I would be struggle's enthusiasm. But, gentlemen of Muggleton, is it in cricket alone that your fellow townsmen stand preeminent? Have you never heard of dumpkin's and determination? Have you never been taught to associate potter with property? Great applause. Have you never, when struggling for your rights, your liberties and your privileges, been reduced if only for an instant to misgiving and despair? And when you have been thus depressed, has not the name of dumpkin's laid afresh within your breast the fire which had just gone out? And has not a word from the man lightened it again as brightly as if it had never expired? Great cheering. Gentlemen, I beg to surround with a rich halo of enthusiastic cheering the united names of dumpkin's and potter. Here the little man ceased, and here the company commenced a raising of voices and thumping of tables, which lasted with little intermission during the remainder of the evening. Other toasts were drunk. Mr. Luffy and Mr. Struggles, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Jingle were each in his turn, the subject of unqualified eulogium, and each in due course returned thanks for the honor. Enthusiastic as we are in the noble cause to which we have devoted ourselves, we should have felt a sensation of pride which we cannot express, and a consciousness of having done something to merit immortality of which we are now deprived, could we have laid the faintest outline on these addresses before our ardent readers? Mr. Snodgrass, as usual, took a great mass of notes which would no doubt have afforded most useful and valuable information, had not the burning eloquence of the words or the feverish influence of the wine made that gentleman's hands so extremely unsteady, as to render his writing nearly unintelligible and his style wholly so. By dint of patient investigation we have been able to trace some characters bearing a faint resemblance to the names of the speakers, and we can only discern an entry of a song supposed to have been sung by Mr. Jingle, in which the words boll, sparkling, ruby, bright, and wine are frequently repeated at short intervals. We fancy, too, that we can discern at the very end of the note some indistinct reference to broiled bones and then the words cold without occur, but as any hypothesis we could have found upon them as to necessarily rest upon mere conjecture, we are not disposed to indulge in any of the speculations to which they may give rise. We will therefore return to Mr. Tubman, merely adding that within some few minutes before twelve o'clock that night, the convocation of worthy's of Dingley Dalla Muggleton were heard to sing, with great feeling and emphasis, the beautiful and pathetic national air of, We won't go home till morning, we won't go home till morning, we won't go home till morning, till daylight doth appear. CHAPTER VIII. Strongly illustrative of the position that the cause of true love is not a railway. The quiet seclusion of Dingley Dalla, the presence of so many of the gentler sex, and the solicitude and anxiety they evinced in his behalf, were all favourable to the growth and development of those softer feelings, which nature had implanted deep in the bosom of Mr. Tracey Tubman, and which now appeared destined to centre in one lovely object. The young ladies were pretty, their manners winning, their dispositions unexceptionable. But there was a dignity in the air, a touchmenotishness in the walk, a majesty in the eye, of the spinster aunt, to which, at their time of life, they could lay no claim which distinguished her from any female on whom Mr. Tubman had ever gazed. That there was something kindred in their nature, something congenial in their souls, something mysteriously sympathetic in their bosoms, was evident. Her name was the first that rose to Mr. Tubman's lips as he lay wounded on the grass, and her hysteric laughter was the first sound that fell upon his ear when he was supported to the house. But had her agitation arisen from an amiable and feminine sensibility, but been equally repressible in any case, or had it been called forth by a more ardent and passionate feeling, which he, of all men living, could alone awaken? These were the doubts which wracked his brain as he lay extended on the sofa. These were the doubts which he determined should be at once and forever resolved. It was evening. Isabella and Emily had strolled out with Mr. Trundle. The deaf old lady had fallen asleep in her chair. The snoring of the fat boy penetrated in a low and monotonous sound from the distant kitchen. The Buxom servants were lounging at the side door, enjoying the pleasantness of the hour, and the delights of a flirtation on first principles with certain unwieldy animals attached to the farm. And there is set the interesting pair uncared for by all caring for none, and dreaming only of themselves. There they sat, in short, like a pair of carefully folded kid gloves bound up in each other. I have forgotten my flowers, said the spinster aunt. What of them now? Said Mr. Topman in accents of persuasion. It will take cold in the evening air, urge the spinster aunt affectionately. No, no, said Mr. Topman, rising. It will do me good. Let me accompany you. The lady paused to adjust the sling in which the left arm of the youth was placed, and taking his right arm led him to the garden. There was a bower at the farther end, with honeysuckle, jasmine, and creeping plants, one of those sweet retreats which humane men erect for the accommodation of spiders. The spinster aunt took up a large watering pot, which lay in one corner, and was about to leave the arbor. Mr. Topman detained her, and drew her to a seat beside him. Miss Wardle, said he. The spinster aunt trembled, till some pebbles which had accidentally found their way into the large watering pot, shook like an infant's rattle. Miss Wardle, said Mr. Topman, you are an angel. Mr. Topman exclaimed Rachel, blushing as red as the watering pot itself. Nay, said the eloquent be quick him. I know it, but too well. All women are angels, they say, murmured the lady playfully. Then what can you be? Or to what, without presumption, can I compare you? replied Mr. Topman. Where was the woman ever seen who resembled you? Where else could I hope to find so rare a combination of excellence and beauty? Where else could I seek to, oh, hear Mr. Topman paused and pressed the hand which clasped the handle of the happy watering pot? The lady turned aside her head. Men are such deceivers, she softly whispered. They are, they are, ejaculated Mr. Topman, but not all men. There lives at least one being who can never change, one being who would be content to devote his whole existence to your happiness, who lives but in your eyes, who breathes but in your smiles, who bears the heavy burden of life itself only for you. Could such an individual be found? said the lady. But he can be found, said the ardent Mr. Topman, interposing. He is found. He is here, Ms. Waddle. And there the lady was aware of his intention. Mr. Topman had sunk upon his knees at her feet. Mr. Topman rise, said Rachel. Never was the valorous reply. Oh, Rachel, he seized her passive hand, and the watering pot fell to the ground as he pressed it to his lips. Oh, Rachel, say you love me. Mr. Topman set the spinster on with averted head. I can hardly speak the words, but you are not wholly indifferent to me. Mr. Topman no sooner heard this avowal, than he proceeded to do what his enthusiastic emotions prompted, and what, for all we know, for we are but little acquainted with such matters. People so circumstanced always do. He jumped up, and throwing his arm around the neck of the spinster aunt, imprinted upon her lips numerous kisses, which, after a due show of struggling and resistance, she received so passively, that there is no telling how many more Mr. Topman might have bestowed if the lady had not given a very unaffected start, and exclaimed in an affrighted tone, Mr. Topman, we are observed. We are discovered. Mr. Topman looked round. There was the fat boy perfectly motionless, with his large circular eyes staring into the arbor, but without the slightest expression on his face that the most expert physiognomist could have referred to astonishment, curiosity, or any other known passion that agitates the human breast. Mr. Topman gazed on the fat boy, and the fat boy stared at him. And along Mr. Topman observed the utter vacancy of the fat boy's countenance. The more convinced he became that he either did not know or did not understand anything that had been going forward. Under this impression, he said with great firmness, what do you want here, sir? Supper's ready, sir, was the prompt reply. Have you just come here, sir? Inquired Mr. Topman with a piercing look, just replied the fat boy. Mr. Topman looked at him very hard again, but there was not a wink in his eye or a curve in his face. Mr. Topman took the arm of the spinster around and walked towards the house. The fat boy followed behind. He knows nothing of what has happened, he whispered. Nothing, said the spinster aunt. There was a sound behind them as of an imperfectly suppressed chuckle. Mr. Topman turned sharply round. No, it could not have been the fat boy. There was not a gleam of math or anything but feeding in his whole visage. He must have been fast asleep, whispered Mr. Topman. I have not the least doubt of it, replied the spinster aunt. They both laughed heartily. Mr. Topman was wrong. The fat boy for once had not been fast asleep. He was awake, wide awake, to what had been going forward. The supper passed off without any attempt at a general conversation. The old lady had gone to bed. Isabella Wardle devoted herself exclusively to Mr. Trundle. The spinster's attentions were reserved for Mr. Topman. And Emily's thoughts appeared to be engrossed by some distant object. Possibly they were with the absence not grass. 11, 12, one o'clock had struck and the gentleman had not arrived. Constellation sat on every face. Could they have been waylaid and dropped? Should they send men and lanterns in every direction by which they could be supposed likely to have traveled home? Or should they hark? There they were. Wardle could have made them so late. A strange voice, too. To whom could it belong? They rushed into the kitchen whether the truants had repaired and at once obtained rather more than a glimmering of the real state of the case. Mr. Pickwick, with his hands in his pockets and his head cocked completely over his left eye, was leaning against the dresser, shaking his head from side to side and producing a constant succession of the blandest and most benevolent smiles without being moved there and to by any discernible cause or pretence whatsoever. Old Mr. Wardle, with a highly inflamed countenance, was grasping the hand of a strange gentleman muttering protestations of eternal friendship. Mr. Winkle, supporting himself by the eight-day clock, was feebly invoking destruction upon the head of any member of the family who should suggest the propriety of his retiring for the night. And Mr. Snodgrass had sunk into a chair with an expression of the most abject and hopeless misery that the human mind can imagine, portrayed in every lineament of his expressive face. Is anything the matter? Inquired the three ladies. Nothing the matter replied Mr. Pickwick. We are all right. I say, Wardle, we're all right, ain't we? I should think so, replied the jolly host. My dears, here is my friend Mr. Jingle, Mr. Pickwick's friend, Mr. Jingle. Come, Ponditle, visit. Is anything the matter with Mr. Snodgrass, sir? Inquired Emily with great anxiety. Nothing the matter, ma'am, replied the stranger. Cricut dinner, glorious party, capital songs, old port, claret, good, very good wine, man, wine. It wasn't the wine, ma'am, at Mr. Snodgrass, in a broken voice. It was the salmon, somehow or other. It never is the wine in these cases. Hadn't they better go to bed, ma'am? Inquired Emma. Two of the boys will carry the gentleman upstairs. I won't go to bed, said Mr. Winkle firmly. No living boy shall carry me, said Mr. Pickwick stoutly. And he went on smiling as before. Hurrah, gasped Mr. Winkle faintly. Hurrah, echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat and dashing it on the floor and insanely casting his spectacles into the middle of the kitchen. At this humorous feet, he laughed outright. Let's have another bottle, cried Mr. Winkle, commencing in a very loud key and ending in a very faint one. His head dropped upon his breast and muttering his invincible determination not to go to his bed, and a sanguinary regret that he had not done for old Topman in the morning, he fell fast asleep. In which condition he was born to his apartment by two young giants under the personal superintendence of the fat boy to whose protecting care Mr. Snodgrass shortly afterwards confided his own person. Mr. Pickwick accepted the preferred arm of Mr. Topman and quietly disappeared, smiling more than ever. And Mr. Wardle, after taking as affectionate a leave of the whole family as if he were ordered for immediate execution, consigned to Mr. Trundle the honor of conveying him upstairs and retired with a very futile attempt to look impressively solemn and dignified. What a shocking scene, said the spinster aunt. Disgusting, ejaculated both the young ladies. Dreadful, dreadful, said Jingle, looking very grave. He was about a bottle and a half ahead of any of his companions, horrid spectacle, very. What a nice man, whispered the spinster aunt to Mr. Topman. Good looking too, whispered Emily Wardle. Oh, decidedly, observed the spinster aunt. Mr. Topman thought of the widow at Rochester and his mind was troubled. The succeeding half-hour's conversation was not of a nature to calm his perturbed spirit. The new visitor was very talkative and a number of his anecdotes was only to be exceeded by the extent of his politeness. Mr. Topman felt that as Jingle's popularity increased, he, Topman, retired further into the shade. His laughter was forced, his merriment feigned. And when at last he laid his aching temples between the sheets, he thought with horrid delight. On the satisfaction, it would afford him to have Jingle's head at that moment between the feather bed and the mattress. The indefatigable stranger rose by time's next morning, and although his companions remained in bed overpowered with the dissipation of the previous night, exerted himself most successfully to promote the hilarity of the breakfast table. So successful were his efforts that even the deaf old lady insisted on having one or two of his best jokes retailed through the trumpet. And even she condescended to observe to the spinster aunt that he, meaning Jingle, was an impudent young fellow, a sentiment in which all her relations then and their present thoroughly coincided. It was the old lady's habit on the fine summer mornings to repair to the arbor in which Mr. Topman had already signalized himself in form and manner following. First, the fat boy fetched from a peg behind the old lady's bedroom door, a clothes back sat in bonnet, a warm cotton shawl, and a thick stick with a capacious handle. And the old lady, having put on the bonnet and shawl at her leisure, would lean one hand on the stick and the other on the fat boy's shoulder and walk leisurely to the arbor where the fat boy would leave her to enjoy the fresh air for the space of half an hour. At the expiration of which time, he would return and reconduct her to the house. The old lady was very precise and very particular. And as this ceremony had been observed for three successive summers without the slightest deviation from the accustomed form, she was not a little surprised on this particular morning to see the fat boy, instead of leaving the arbor, walk a few paces out of it, look carefully around him in every direction and return towards her with great stealth and a naire of the most profound mystery. The old lady was timorous, most old ladies are. And her first impression was that the bloated lad was about to do her some grievous bodily harm with the view of possessing himself of her loose coin. She would have cried for assistance, but age and infirmity had long ago deprived her of the power of screaming. She, therefore, watched his motions with feelings of intense horror, which were in no degree diminished by his coming close up to her and shouting in her ear in an agitated and, as it seemed to her, a threatening tone, Mrs. Now, it so happened that Mr. Jingle was walking in the garden close to the arbor at that moment. He too heard the shouts of Mrs. and stopped to hear more. There were three reasons for his doing so. In the first place, he was idle and curious. Secondly, he was by no means scrupulous. Thirdly, and lastly, he was concealed from view by some flowering shrubs. So there he stood and there he listened. Mrs. shouted the fat boy. Well, Joe, said the trembling old lady, I'm sure I have been a good mistress to you, Joe. You have invariably been treated very kindly. You have never had too much to do and you have always had enough to eat. This last was an appeal to the fat boy's most sensitive feelings. He seemed touched as he replied emphatically. I know I has. Then what can you want to do now? Said the old lady, gaining courage. I want to make your flesh creep, replied the boy. They sounded like a very bloodthirsty mode of showing one's gratitude. And as the old lady did not precisely understand the process by which such a result was to be attained, all her former horrors returned. What do you think I see in this very arbor last night? Inquired the boy. Bless us. What? Exclaimed the old lady alarmed at the solemn manner of the copulent youth. The strange gentleman, him as he had his arm heard, a kissing and hugging. Who, Joe? None of the servants, I hope. Worse than that, roared the fat boy in the old lady's ear. Not one of my granddaughters. Worse than that. Worse than that, Joe, said the old lady who had thought this the extreme limit of human atrocity. Who was it, Joe? I insist upon knowing. The fat boy looked cautiously around and having concluded his survey, shouted in the old lady's ear. Miss Rachel. What? Said the old lady in a shrill tone. Speak louder. Miss Rachel, roared the fat boy. My daughter? The train of knots which the fat boy gave by way of ascent communicated a blamange like motion to his fat cheeks. And she suffered him? Exclaimed the old lady. A grin stole over the fat boy's features, as he said. I see her a kissing of him again. If Mr. Jingle from his place of concealment could have beheld the expression which the old lady's face assumed at this communication, the probabilities that a sudden burst of laughter would have betrayed his close vicinity to the summer house. He listened attentively. Fragments of angry sentences such as, without my permission, at her time of life, miserable old woman like me, might have waited till I was dead, and so forth reached his ears. And then he heard the heels of the fat boy's boots crunching the gravel, as he retired and left the old lady alone. It was a remarkable coincidence, perhaps, but it was nevertheless a fact that Mr. Jingle, within five minutes of his arrival at Manor Farm on the preceding night, had inwardly resolved to lay siege to the heart of the spinster aunt without delay. He had observation enough to see that his offhand manner was by no means disagreeable to the fair object of his attack. And he had more than a strong suspicion that she possessed that most desirable of all requisites, a small independence. The imperative necessity of ousting his rival by some means or other flashed quickly upon him, and he immediately resolved to adopt certain proceedings tending to that end and object without a moment's delay. Fielding tells us that man is fire and woman toe, and the Prince of Darkness sets a light term. Mr. Jingle knew that young men to spinster aunts are as lighted gas to gunpowder, and he determined to essay the effect of an explosion without loss of time. Full of reflections upon this important decision, he crept from his place of concealment and under cover of the shrubs before mentioned approached the house. Fortune seemed determined to favor his design. Mr. Tubman and the rest of the gentlemen left the garden by the side gate just as he obtained a view of it. And the young ladies, he knew, had walked out alone soon after breakfast. The coast was clear. The breakfast parlor door was partially open. He peeped in. The spinster aunt was knitting. He coughed. She looked up and smiled. Hesitation formed no part of Mr. Alfred Jingle's character. He laid his finger on his lips mysteriously, walked in and closed the door. Miss Wardle said Mr. Jingle with affected earnestness. Forgiven trusion, short acquaintance, no time for ceremony, all discovered. Sir said the spinster aunt rather astonished by the unexpected apparition and somewhat doubtful of Mr. Jingle's sanity. Hush, said Mr. Jingle in a stage whisper. Large boy, dumpling face, round eyes, rascal. Here he shook his head expressively and the spinster aunt trembled with agitation. I presume you allude to Joseph, sir? Said the lady making an effort to appear composed. Yes, ma'am, dam that Joe, treacherous dog Joe, told the old lady, old lady furious, wild, raving, arbor, tuppman, kissing and hugging, all that sort of thing, ah, ma'am, ah. Mr. Jingle said the spinster aunt, if you come here, sir, to insult me. Not at all, by no means, replied the unabashed Mr. Jingle. Overheard the tale, came to warn you of your danger, tender my services, prevent the hubbub. Never mind, think and then insult, leave the room. And he turned as if to carry the threat into execution. What shall I do? Said the poor spinster, bursting into tears. My brother will be furious. Of course he will, said Mr. Jingle, pausing, outrageous. Oh, Mr. Jingle, what can I say? Exclaimed the spinster aunt in another flood of despair. Say he dreamt it, replied Mr. Jingle coolly. A ray of comfort darted across the mind of the spinster aunt at this suggestion. Mr. Jingle perceived it and followed up his advantage. Poor, poor, nothing more easy. Black guard boy, lovely woman, fat boy, horse whipped, you believe, end of the matter, all comfortable. Whether the probability of escaping from the consequences of this ill-timed discovery was delightful to the spinsters' feelings, or whether the hearing herself described as a lovely woman, softened the asperity of her grief, we know not. She bludged slightly and cast a grateful look on Mr. Jingle. That insinuating gentleman sighed deeply, fixed his eyes on the spinster aunt's face for a couple of minutes, started maladramatically, and suddenly withdrew them. You seem unhappy, Mr. Jingle, said the lady in a plaintive voice. May I show my gratitude for your kind interference by inquiring into the cause with a view, if possible, to its removal? Ha, exclaimed Mr. Jingle with another start. Removal, remove my unhappiness, and your love bestowed upon a man who is insensible to the blessing, who even now contemplates a design upon the affections of the knees of the creature, who but no, he is my friend. I will not expose his vices. Ms. Wardle, farewell. At the conclusion of this address, the most consecutive he was ever known to utter, Mr. Jingle applied to his eyes the remnant of a handkerchief before noticed, and turned towards the door. Stay, Mr. Jingle, said the spinster aunt emphatically. You have made an allusion to Mr. Tapman. Explain it. Never exclaimed Jingle with a professional that is theatrical air. Never, and by way of showing that he had no desire to be questioned further, he drew a chair close to that of the spinster aunt and sat down. Mr. Jingle, said the aunt, I entreat you. I implore you. If there is any dreadful mystery connected with Mr. Tapman, reveal it. Can I, said Mr. Jingle, fixing his eyes on the aunt's face, can I see lovely creature sacrificed at the shrine, heartless avarice? He appeared to be struggling with various conflicting emotions for a few seconds, and then he said in a low voice, Tapman only wants your money. The wretch exclaimed the spinster with energetic indignation. Mr. Jingle's doubts were resolved. She had money. More than that, said Jingle, loves another. Another ejaculated the spinster, who? Short girl, black eyes, niece Emily. There was a pause. Now, if there was one individual in the whole world, of whom the spinster aunt entertained a mortal and deep-rooted jealousy, it was this identical niece. The color rushed over her face and neck, and she tossed her head in silence with an air of ineffable contempt. At last, biting her thin lips and bridling up, she said, it can't be. I won't believe it. Watch him, said Jingle. I will, said the aunt. Watch his looks. I will, his whispers. I will. He'll sit next to her at table. Let him, he'll flatter her. Let him, he'll pay her every possible attention. Let him, and he'll catch you. Cut me, screamed the spinster aunt. He cut me? Will he? And she trembled with rage and disappointment. You will convince yourself, said Jingle. I will. You will show your spirit? I will. You will not have him afterwards? Never. You will take somebody else? Yes, you shall. Mr. Jingle fell on his knees, remained thereupon for five minutes thereafter, and rose the accepted lover of the spinster aunt conditionally upon Mr. Tapman's perjury being made clear and manifest. The burden of proof lay with Mr. Alfred Jingle, and he produced his evidence that very day at dinner. The spinster aunt could hardly believe her eyes. Mr. Tracey Tapman was established at Emily's side, ogling, whispering, and smiling, in opposition to Mr. Snodgrass. Not a word, not a look, not a glance, did he bestow upon his heart's pride of the evening before. Damn that boy, thought old Mr. Waddle to himself. He had heard the story from his mother. Damn that boy. He must have been asleep. It's all imagination. Traitor, thought the spinster aunt. Dear Mr. Jingle was not deceiving me. Ah, how I hate the rich. The following conversation may serve to explain to our readers this apparently unaccountable alternation of deportment on the part of Mr. Tracey Tapman. The time was evening, the scene, the garden. There were two figures walking in a side path. One was rather short and stout. The other tall and slim. They were Mr. Tapman and Mr. Jingle. The stout figure commenced the dialogue. How did I do it? He inquired, splendid capital. Couldn't act better myself. You must repeat the part tomorrow. Every evening till further notice. Does Rachel still wish it? Of course, she don't like it, but must be done. A word suspicion, afraid of her brother, says there is no help for it. Only a few days more when old folks blinded, crown your happiness. Any message? Love, best love, kindest regards and alterable affection. Can I say anything for you? My dear fellow replied the unsuspicious Mr. Tapman, fervently grasping his friend's hand. Carry my best love. Say how hard I find it to dissemble. Say anything that's kind. But add how sensible I am of the necessity of the suggestions she made to me through you this morning. Say I applaud her wisdom and admire her discretion. I will. Anything more? Nothing, only add how ardently I long for the time when I may call her mine and all the simulation may be unnecessary. Certainly, certainly, anything more? Oh, my friend, said poor Mr. Tapman, again grasping the hand of his companion, receive my warmest thanks for your disinterested kindness. And forgive me if I have ever, even in thought, done you the injustice of supposing that you could stand in my way. My dear friend, can I ever repay you? Don't talk of it, replied Mr. Jingle. He stopped short as if suddenly recollecting something and said, by the by, can't spare 10 pounds, can you? Very particular purpose, pay you in three days. I dare say I can, replied Mr. Tapman, in the fullness of his heart, three days, you say? Only three days, all over then, no more difficulties. Mr. Tapman counted the money into his companion's hand and he dropped it piece by piece into his pocket as they walked towards the house. Be careful, said Mr. Jingle, not a look, not a wink, said Mr. Tapman, not a syllable, not a whisper. All your attentions to the niece, rather rude than otherwise to the aunt, only way of deceiving the old ones. I will take care, said Mr. Tapman, aloud, and I will take care, said Mr. Jingle, internally. And they entered the house. The scene of that afternoon was repeated that evening and on the three afternoons and evenings next ensuing. On the fourth, the host was in high spirits, for he had satisfied himself that there was no ground for the charge against Mr. Tapman. So was Mr. Tapman, for Mr. Jingle had told him that his affair would soon be brought to a crisis. So was Mr. Pickwick, for he was seldom otherwise. So was not, Mr. Snodgrass, for he had grown jealous of Mr. Tapman. So was the old lady, for she had been winning at wist. So were Mr. Jingle and Miss Wardle, for reasons of sufficient importance in this eventful history to be narrated in another chapter. End of chapter eight. Chapter nine of the Pickwick Papers. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Deborah Lynn. The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens. Chapter nine. A Discovery and a Chase. The supper was ready laid. The chairs were drawn round the table. Bottles, jugs, and glasses were arranged upon the sideboard and everything be tokened to the approach of the most convivial period in the whole four and 20 hours. Where's Rachel? Said Mr. Wardle. I, and Jingle, added Mr. Pickwick. Dear me, said the host, I wonder I haven't missed him before. Why, I don't think I've heard his voice for two hours at least. Emily, my dear, ring the bell. The bell was wrong and the fat boy appeared. Where's Miss Rachel? He couldn't say. Where's Mr. Jingle then? He didn't know. Everybody looked surprised. It was late, past 11 o'clock. Mr. Tubman laughed in his sleeve. They were loitering somewhere, talking about him. Ha, ha, capital notion that funny. Nevermind, said Wardle, after a short pause. They'll turn up presently, I dare say. I never wait supper for anybody. Excellent rule that, said Mr. Pickwick, admirable. Pray sit down, said the host. Certainly, said Mr. Pickwick, and down they sat. There was a gigantic round of cold beef on the table, and Mr. Pickwick was supplied with a plentiful portion of it. He had raised his fork to his lips and was on the very point of opening his mouth for the reception of a piece of beef when the hum of many voices suddenly arose in the kitchen. He paused and laid down his fork. Mr. Wardle paused, too, and insensibly released his hold of the carving knife, which remained inserted in the beef. He looked at Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick looked at him. Heavy footsteps were heard in the passage. The parlor door was suddenly burst open, and the man who had cleaned Mr. Pickwick's boots on his first arrival rushed into the room, followed by the fat boy in all the domestics. What, the devil's the meaning of this, exclaimed the host. The kitchen chimney ain't a fire, is it, Emma? Inquired the old lady. Lord Grandma, no, screamed both the young ladies. What's the matter, roared the master of the house. The man gasped for breath, and fatally ejaculated. They had gone, master, gone right clean off, sir. At this juncture, Mr. Tubman was observed to lay down his knife and fork and to turn very pale. Who's gone? said Mr. Wardle fiercely. Master Jingle and Miss Rachel in a poche from Blue Lion Muggleton. I was there, but I couldn't stop him, so I'll run off to tell him. I paid his expenses, said Mr. Tubman, jumping up frantically. He's got 10 pounds of mine. Stop him, he swindled me. I won't bear it. I'll have justice, Pickwick. I won't stand it. And with sundry incoherent exclamations of the light nature, the unhappy gentlemen spun round and round the apartment in a transport of frenzy. Lord Preserve us, ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, eyeing the extraordinary gestures of his friend with terrified surprise. He's gone mad. What shall we do? Do, said the stout old host, who regarded only the last words of the sentence. Put the horse in the gig. I'll get a chase at the lion and follow him instantly. Where? He exclaimed as the man ran out to execute the commission. Where's that villain, Joe? Here I am, but I hate a will and, replied a voice. It was the fat boys. Let me get at him, Pickwick. Cried Wardle as he rushed at the ill-starred youth. He was bribed by that scoundrel Jingle to put me on a wrong scent by telling a cock and bull story of my sister and your friend Tubman. Here, Mr. Tubman sank into a chair. Let me get at him. Don't let him, screamed all the women, above whose exclamations the blubbering of the fat boy was distinctly audible. I won't be held, cried the old man. Mr. Winkle, take your hands off. Mr. Pickwick, let me go, sir. It was a beautiful sight in that moment of turmoil and confusion to behold the placid and philosophical expression of Mr. Pickwick's face, albeit somewhat flushed with exertion, as he stood with his arms firmly clasped round the extensive waist of their corpulent host, thus restraining the impetuosity of his passion. While the fat boy was scratched and pulled and pushed from the room by all the females congregated therein, he had no sooner released his hold than the man entered to announce that the gig was ready. Don't let him go alone, screamed the females. He'll kill somebody. I'll go with him, said Mr. Pickwick. You're a good fellow, Pickwick, said the host, grasping his hand. Emma, give Mr. Pickwick a shawl to tie around his neck. Make haste. Look after your grandmother, girls. She has fainted away. Now, then, are you ready? Mr. Pickwick's mouth and chin, having been hastily enveloped in a large shawl, his hat having been put on his head and his great coat thrown over his arm, he replied in the affirmative. They jumped into the gig. Give her her head, Tom, cried the host, and away they went, down the narrow lanes, jolting in and out of the cart ruts and bumping up against the hedges on either side as if they would go to pieces every moment. How much are they ahead? shouted Wardle as they drove up to the door of the blue lion, round which a little crowd had collected, late as it was. Not above three quarters of an hour, was everybody's reply. Chased forward directly out with them, put up the gig afterwards. Now, boys, cried the landlord, chasing four out, make haste, look alive there. Away ran the hostlers and the boys. The lanterns glimmered as the men ran to and fro, the horses hooves clattered on the uneven paving of the yard. The chaise rumbled as it was drawn out of the coach house and all was noise and bustle. Now, then, is that chaise coming out tonight? cried Wardle. Coming down the yard now, sir, replied the hostler. Out came the chaise and went the horses, on spring the boys, and got the travelers. Mind the seven mile stage in less than half an hour, shouted Wardle, off with you. The boys applied whip and spur, the waiters shouted, the hostlers cheered in a way they went, fast and furiously. Pretty situation, thought Mr. Pickwick when he had had a moment's time for reflection. Pretty situation for the general chairman of the Pickwick Club. Damp chaise, strange horses, 15 miles an hour and 12 o'clock at night. For the first three or four miles, not a word was spoken by either of the gentlemen, each being too much immersed in his own reflections to address any observations to his companion. When they had gone over that much ground, however, and the horses getting thoroughly warmed and began to do their work in really good style, Mr. Pickwick became too much exhilarated with the rapidity of the motion to remain any longer perfectly mute. We're sure to catch them, I think, said he. Hope so, replied his companion. Fine nights, said Mr. Pickwick, looking up at the moon, which was shining brightly. So much the worse, returned Wardle, for they all have had all the advantage of the moonlight to get the start of us and we shall lose it. It will have gone down in another hour. It will be rather unpleasant going at this rate in the dark, won't it? inquired Mr. Pickwick. I dare say it will, replied his friend, dryly. Mr. Pickwick's temporary excitement began to sober down a little as he reflected upon the inconveniences and dangers of the expedition in which he had so thoughtlessly embarked. He was roused by a loud shouting of the post-boy on the leader. Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo, went the first boy. Yo, yo, yo, yo, went the second. Yo, yo, yo, yo, chimed in old Wardle himself, most lustily, with his head in half his body out of the coach window. Yo, yo, yo, yo, shouted Mr. Pickwick, taking up the burden of the cry, though he had not the slightest notion of its meaning or object, and amidst the yo-yowing of the whole four, the chaise stopped. What's the matter, inquired Mr. Pickwick? There's a gate here, replied old Wardle. We shall hear something of the fugitives. After a lapse of five minutes, consumed in incessant knocking and shouting, an old man in his shirt and trousers emerged from the churnpike house and opened the gate. How long is it since the post-chase went through here, inquired Mr. Wardle? How long? Ah, well I don't rightly know. It warned a long time ago, nor it warned a short time ago, just between the two perhaps. Has any chaise been by at all? Oh yes, there's been a chaise by. How long ago, my friend, and opposed Mr. Pickwick an hour? Ah, I daresay it might be, replied the man. Or two hours, inquired the post-boy on the wheeler. Well, I shouldn't wonder if it was, returned the old man doubtfully. Drive on, boys, cried the testy old gentleman. Don't waste any more time with that old idiot. Idiot, exclaimed the old man with a grin as he stood in the middle of the road with the gate half closed, watching the chaise, which rapidly diminished in the increasing distance. No, not much of that either. You've lost 10 minutes here and gone away as wise as you came after all. If every man on the line just has a guinea-gib and earns it half as well, you won't catch Tother's chaise this side of Micklem this old short and fat. And with another prolonged grin, the old man closed the gate, re-entered his house and bolted the door after him. Meanwhile, the chaise proceeded without any slackening of pace towards the conclusion of the stage. The moon, as Wardlehead foretold, was rapidly on the wane, large tears of dark, heavy clouds, which had been gradually overspreading the sky for some time past, now formed one black mass overhead, and large drops of rain, which paddered every now and then against the windows of the chaise, seemed to warn the travelers of the rapid approach of a stormy night. The wind, too, which was directly against them, swept in furious gusts down the narrow road and howled dismally through the trees which skirted the pathway. Mr. Pickwick drew his coat closer about him, coiled himself more snugly up into the corner of the chaise, and fell into a sound sleep, from which he was only awakened by the stopping of the vehicle, the sound of the hustler's bell, and a loud cry of, horse is on directly! But here another delay occurred. The boys were sleeping with such mysterious soundness that it took five minutes apiece to wake them. The hustler had somehow or other mislaid the key of the stable, and even when that was found, two sleepy helpers put the wrong harness on the wrong horses, and the whole process of harnessing had to be gone through a fresh. Had Mr. Pickwick been alone, these multiplied obstacles would have completely put an end to the pursuit at once. But Old Wardle was not to be so easily daunted. And he laid about him with such hearty goodwill, cuffing this man and pushing that, strapping a buckle here and taking in a link there that the chaise was ready in a much shorter time than could reasonably have been expected under so many difficulties. They resumed their journey, and certainly the prospect before them was by no means encouraging. The stage was 15 miles long. The night was dark, the wind high, and the rain pouring in torrents. It was impossible to make any great way against such obstacles united. It was hard upon one o'clock already, and nearly two hours were consumed in getting to the end of the stage. Here, however, an object presented itself which rekindled their hopes and reanimated their drooping spirits. When did this chaise come in? cried Old Wardle, leaping out of his own vehicle and pointing to one covered with wet mud, which was standing in the yard. Not a quarter of an hour ago, sir, replied the hostler to whom the question was addressed. Lady and gentlemen, inquired Wardle, almost breathless with impatience. Yes, sir. Tall gentlemen, dress coat, long legs, thin body? Yes, sir. Elderly lady, thin face, rather skinny, eh? Yes, sir. By heavens, it's the couple, Pickwick, exclaimed the old gentleman. Would have been here before, said the hostler, but they broke a trace. To them, said Wardle, it is, by jove, shazin' for instantly. We shall catch them yet before they reach the next stage. A guinea-piece, boys, be alive there, bustle about, there's good fellows. It was such admonitions as these, the old gentleman ran up and down the yard and bustled to and fro in a state of excitement which communicated itself to Mr. Pickwick also, and under the influence of which that gentleman got himself into complicated entanglements with harness and mixed up with horses and wheels of chases in the most surprising manner, firmly believing that by so doing he was materially forwarding the preparations for their resuming their journey. Jump in, jump in, cried old Wardle, climbing into the chaise, pulling up the steps and slamming the door after him. Come along, make haste. And before Mr. Pickwick knew precisely what he was about, he felt himself forced in at the other door by one pull from the old gentleman and one push from the hostler, and off they were again. Ah, we are moving now, said the old gentleman exultingly. They were indeed, as was sufficiently testified to Mr. Pickwick by his constant collision, either with the hard woodwork of the chaise or the body of his companion. Hold up, said the stout old Mr. Wardle as Mr. Pickwick dived head foremost into his capaceous waistcoat. I never did feel such a jolting in my life, said Mr. Pickwick. Never mind, replied his companion. It will soon be over, steady, steady. Mr. Pickwick planted himself into his own corner as firmly as he could and on whirled the chaise faster than ever. They had traveled in this way about three miles when Mr. Wardle, who had been looking out of the window for two or three minutes, suddenly drew in his face covered with splashes and exclaimed in breathless eagerness, here they are. Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out of his window. Yes, there was a chaise in four, a short distance before them, dashing along at full gallop. Go on, go on, almost shriek, the old gentleman. Two giddies of peace, boys, don't let them gain on us. Keep it up, keep it up. The horses in the first chaise started on at their utmost speed and those in Mr. Wardle's galloped furiously behind them. I see his head, exclaimed the collaric old man. Damn, I see his head. So do I, said Mr. Pickwick, that's he. Mr. Pickwick was not mistaken. The countenance of Mr. Jingle, completely coated with mud thrown up by the wheels, was plainly discernible at the window of his chaise and the motion of his arm, which was waving violently towards the postillions, denoted that he was encouraging them to increased exertion. The interest was intense. Fields, trees, and hedges seemed to rush past them with the velocity of a whirlwind so rapid was the pace at which they tore along. They were close by the side of the first chaise. Jingle's voice could be plainly heard even above the din of the wheels, urging on the boys. Old Mr. Wardle foamed with rage and excitement. He roared out scoundrels and villains by the dozen, clenched his fist and shook it expressively at the object of his indignation. But Mr. Jingle only answered with a contemptuous smile and replied to his menaces by a shout of triumph as his horses, answering the increased application of whip and spur, broke into a faster gallop and left the pursuers behind. Mr. Pickwick had just drawn in his head and Mr. Wardle, exhausted with shouting, had done the same when a tremendous jolt threw them forward against the front of the vehicle. There was a sudden bump, a loud crash, away rolled a wheel and overwent the chaise. After a very few seconds of bewilderment and confusion in which nothing but the plunging of horses and breaking of glass could be made out, Mr. Pickwick felt himself violently pulled out from among the ruins of the chaise and as soon as he had gained his feet, extricated his head from the skirts of his greatcoat which materially impeded the usefulness of his spectacles, the full disaster of the case met his view. Old Mr. Wardle without a hat and his clothes torn in several places stood by his side and the fragments of the chaise lay scattered at their feet. The post boys who had succeeded in cutting the traces were standing, disfigured with mud and disordered by hard riding by the horse's heads. About a hundred yards in advance was the other chaise which had pulled up on hearing the crash. The pastillians, each with a broad grin convulsing his countenance, were viewing the adverse party from their saddles and Mr. Jingle was contemplating the wreck from the coach window with evident satisfaction. The day was just breaking and the whole scene was rendered perfectly visible by the gray light of the morning. Hello, shouted the shameless Jingle. Anybody damaged? Elderly gentlemen, no lightweights, dangerous work, vary. You're a rascal, Wardle. Ha ha, replied Jingle and then he added with a gnawing wink and a jerk of the thumb towards the interior of the chaise. I say she's very well, desires her compliments, begs you won't trouble yourself, love to tuppy, won't you get up behind? Drive on, boys. The pastillians resumed their proper attitudes and away rattled the chaise. Mr. Jingle fluttering in derision a white handkerchief from the coach window. Nothing in the whole adventure, not even the upset, had disturbed the calm and equitable current of Mr. Pickwick's temper. The villainy, however, which could first borrow money of his faithful follower and then abbreviate his name to Tuppy, was more than he could patiently bear. He drew his breath hard and colored up to the very tips of his spectacles, as he said, slowly and emphatically. If I ever meet that man again, I'll. Yes, yes, interrupted Wardle, that's all very well. But while we stand talking here, they'll get their license and be married in London. Mr. Pickwick paused, bottled up his vengeance and corked it down. How far is it to the next stage? He inquired, Mr. Wardle, of one of the boys. Six mile, ain't it, Tom? Wither better, wither better than a six mile, sir. Can't be helped, said Wardle, we must walk it, Pickwick. No help for it, replied that truly great man. So, sending forward one of the boys on horseback to procure a fresh chaise in horses and leaving the other behind to take care of the broken one, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Wardle set manfully forward on the walk, first tying their shawls round their necks and slouching down their heads to escape as much as possible from the deluge of rain, which after a slight cessation had again begun to pour heavily down. End of chapter nine. Chapter 10 of the Pickwick Papers. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens. Chapter 10. Clearing up all doubts, if any, existed of the disinterestedness of Mr. A. Jingle's character. There are in London several old inns, once the headquarters of celebrated coaches in the days when coaches performed their journeys in a graver and more solemn manner than they do in these times, but which have now degenerated into little more than the abiding and booking places of country wagons. The reader would look in vain for any of these ancient hostelries among the golden crosses and bull and mulls, which rear their stately fronts in the improved streets of London. If he would light upon any of these old places, he must direct his steps to the obscure quarters of the town, and there in some secluded nukes, he will find several still standing with a kind of gloomy sturdiness amidst the modern innovations which surround them. In the borough especially, there still remain some half dozen old inns, which have preserved their external features unchanged and which have escaped alike the rage for public improvement and encroachments of private speculation. Great, rambling, queer old places there are with galleries and passages and staircases wide enough and antiquated enough to furnish materials for a hundred ghost stories, supposing we should ever be reduced to the lamentable necessity of inventing any and that the world should exist long enough to exhaust the innumerable voracious legends connected with old London Bridge and its adjacent neighborhood on the Surrey side. It was in the yard of one of these inns of no less celebrated a one than the White Heart that a man was busily employed in brushing the dirt off a pair of boots early on the morning succeeding the events narrated in the last chapter. He was habited in a coarse striped waistcoat with black calico sleeves and blue glass buttons, drab breeches and leggings. A bright red hunkerchief was wound in a very loose and unstudied style round his neck and an old white hat was carelessly thrown on one side of his head. There were two rows of boots before him, one cleaned and the other dirty and at every addition he made to the clean row he paused from his work and contemplated its results with evident satisfaction. The yard presented none of that bustle and activity which are the usual characteristics of a large coach in three or four lumbering wagons each with a pile of goods beneath its ample canopy about the height of the second floor window of an ordinary house were stowed away beneath a lofty roof which extended over one end of the yard and another which was probably to commence its journey that morning was drawn out into the open space. A double tire of bedroom galleries with old clumsy balustrades ran round two sides of the straggling area and a double row of bells to correspond sheltered from the weather by a little sloping roof hung over the door leading to the bar and coffee room. Two or three gigs and chase carts were wheeled up under different little sheds and penthouses and the occasional heavy tread of a cart horse or rattling of a chain at the farther end of the yard announced to anybody who cared about the matter that the stable lay in that direction. When we add that a few boys in smock frocks were lying asleep on heavy packages, wool packs and other articles that were scattered about on heaps of straw we have described as fully as need be the general appearance of the yard of the wide-heart inn, high street, burrow on a particular morning in question. A loud ringing of one of the bells was followed by the appearance of a smart chambermaid in the upper sleeping gallery who after tapping at one of the doors and receiving a request from within called over the balustrades, Sam, hello, replied the man with a white hat. Number 22 wants his boots. Ask number 22 whether he'll have them now or wait till he gets them, was the reply. Come, don't be a fool, Sam, said the girl coaxingly. The gentleman wants his boots directly. Well, you are a nice young woman for a musical party, you are, said the boot cleaner. Look at these here boots, 11 pair of boots and one shoe as belongs to number six with a wooden leg. 11 boots is to be called at half past eight and the shoe at nine. Who's number 22? That's to put all the others out. No, no, regular rotation as Jack Ketch said when he tied them in up. Sorry to keep you waiting, sir, but I'll attend to you directly. Saying which, the man in the white hat said to work upon a top boot with increased acidity. There was another loud ring and the bustling old landlady of the white heart made her appearance in the opposite gallery. Sam, cried the landlady. Where's that lazy idle, why, Sam? Oh, there you are. Why don't you answer? Wouldn't be gentle to answer. Till you done talking, replied Sam, roughly. Here clean these shoes for number 17 directly and take them to private sitting room number five, first floor. The landlady flung a pair of ladies shoes into the yard and bustled away. Number five, said Sam, as he picked up the shoes and taking a piece of chalk from his pocket and made a memorandum of their destination on the soles. Ladies shoes and private sitting room, I suppose she didn't come in the wagon. She came in early this morning, cried the girl, who was still leaning over the raiding of the gallery. With a gentle man and a hackney couch and it's him as once his boots, and you'd better don't, that's all about it. Why didn't you say so before? Said Sam, with great indignation, singling out the boots in question from the heap before him. For all I knowed, he was one of the regular threepenies, private room and a lady too. If he's anything of a gentleman, he is worth of chilling a day, let alone the errands. Stimulated by this inspiring reflection, Mr. Samuel brushed away with such hearty goodwill that in a few minutes the boots and shoes with a polish which would have struck envy to the soul of the amiable Mr. Warren, for they used day and Martin at the White Heart, had arrived at the door of number five. Come in, said a man's voice in reply to Sam's wrap at the door. Sam made his best bow and stepped into the presence of a lady and the gentleman seated at breakfast. Having officially deposited the gentleman's boots right and left at his feet and the lady's shoes right and left at hers, he backed towards the door. Boots, said the gentleman. Sir, said Sam, closing the door and keeping his hand on the top of the lock. Do you know what's her name, Doctor's Commons? Yes, sir. Where is it? Paul's church at sir. Law archway on the carriage side, booksellers at one corner, hold on to the other and two porters in the middle as tauts for licenses. Tauts for licenses, said the gentleman. Tauts for licenses, replied Sam. Two calves in wide aprons, touches their heads when you walk in. License, sir, license? Queer sought them in their masses too, sir. Old Bailey proctors and no mistike. What do they do? Inquired the gentleman. Do you, sir? That ain't the worst on it neither. They put stings into all gentleman's heads as they never dreamt of. My father, sir, was a coachman, a widower he was, and fought enough for anything in common fact to be sure. His mrs. dies and leaves him four hundred pound. Down he goes to the commons to see the lawyer and draw the blunt. Very smart, top boots on, nosegain his buttonhole, broad-brimmed tile, green shore. Quiet the gentleman. Goes through the archway thinking how he should invest the money. Up comes the tautor, touches his head. License, sir, license? What's that, says my father? License, sir, says he. What license, says my father? Marriage license? Says the tautor. Dash, my best kid, says my father. I never thought of that. I think he wants one, sir, says the tautor. My father pulls up and thinks a bit. No, says he. Darn me, I'm too old. Besides, our menu size is too large, says he. Not a bit on it, sir, says the tautor. Think not, says my father. I'm sure not, says he. We married a gentleman twice your size last Monday. Did you, though? Said my father. To be sure, we did, says the tautor. You're a baby to him. This way, sir, this way. And sure enough, my father walks out to him, like a tame monkey behind a hogan, into a little back office, where a teller sat among dirty papers and tin boxes, making believe he was busy. Pray, take a seat while I make out the affidavit, sir, says the lawyer. Thank you, sir, says my father. And down he sat, and stared with all his eyes and his mouth wide open at the names of the boxes. What's your name, sir? Says the lawyer. Tony Weller, says my father. Parrish, says the lawyer. Bell Savage, says my father. For he stopped there when he drove up, and he knowed nothing about parishes he didn't. And what's the lady's name? Says the lawyer. My father was struck all over heep. Blessed if I know, says he. Not know, says the lawyer. No more, no you do, says my father. Can I put that in other words? Impossible, says the lawyer. Very well, says my father. After he thought a moment, put down Mrs. Clark. What, Clark? Says the lawyer, dipping his pen in the ink. Susan Clark, Mark is a grand-bedorking, says my father. She'll have me if I ask. I'd say, I never said nothing to her, but she'll have me, I know. The license was made out, and she did have him. And what's more, she's got him now. And I never had any of the 400 pound worst luck. Biger pardon, sir, said Sam, when he had concluded. But when I get on these here grievance, I runs on like a new barrel with a wheel greased. Having said which, and having paused for an instant to see whether he was wanted for anything more, Sam left the room. Half past nine, just a time, offered once, said the gentleman whom we need hardly introduce as Mr. Jingle. Time for what? Said the spinster ant coquettishly. License, dearest of angels, give notice of the church, call you mine tomorrow, said Mr. Jingle, and he squeezed the spinster ant's hand. The license, said Rachel, blushing. The license, repeated Mr. Jingle, in hurry, post-haze for license, in hurry, ding dong, I come back. Oh, you run on, said Rachel. Run on, nothing to the hours, days, weeks, months, years when we are united. Run on, they'll fly on, bolt, missile, steam, engine, thousand horsepower, nothing to it. Can't, can't we be married before tomorrow morning? Inquired Rachel, impossible, can be. Notice of the church. Leave the license today, ceremony come off tomorrow. I am so terrified lest my brother should discover us, said Rachel. Discover, nonsense, too much shaken by the breakdown, besides extreme caution, gave up the post-haze, walked on, took a hackney-coach, came to the borough, last place in the world that he'd look in ha-ha capital notion that very. Don't belong, said the spinster affectionately as Mr. Jingle stuck the pinched-up head on his head. Long away from you, cruel charmer. And Mr. Jingle skipped playfully up to the spinster and imprinted a chaste kiss upon her lips and danced out of the room. Dear man, said the spinster as the door closed after him. Rammled girl, said Mr. Jingle as he walked down the passage. It is painful to reflect upon the perfidy of our species and we will not therefore pursue the thread of Mr. Jingle's meditations, as he went at his way to Doctor's Commons. It will be sufficient for our purpose to relate that escaping the snares of the dragons in white aprons who guard the entrance to that enchanted region, he reached the vicar general's office in safety and having procured a highly flattering address on parchment from the Archbishop of Canterbury to his trusty and well-beloved Alfred Jingle and Rachel Wardle greeting, he carefully deposited the mystic document in his pocket and retraced his steps in triumph to the borough. He was yet on his way to the White Heart when two plumb gentlemen and one thin one entered the yard and looked round in search of some authorized person of whom they could make a few inquiries. Mr. Samuel Weller happened to be at that moment engaged in burnishing a pair of painted tops, the personal property of a farmer was refreshing himself in a slight lunch of two or three pounds of cold beef and a pot or two of porter after the fatigues of the borough market. And to him, the thin gentleman straightway advanced. My friend, said the thin gentleman, you're one of the advised gratis order, thought Sam, or you wouldn't be so very fond of me all at once. But he only said, well, sir, my friend, said the thin gentleman with a conciliatory hem. Have you got many people stopping here now? Pretty busy, huh? Sam stole a look at the inquirer. He was a little hydride man with a dark squeezed up face and small restless black eyes that kept winking and twinkling on each side of his little inquisitive nose as if they were playing a perpetual game of peep war with that feature. He was dressed all in black with boots as shiny as his eyes, a low white neck cloth and a clean shirt with a frill to it. A gold watch chain and seals depended from his fob. He carried his black kid gloves in his hands and not on them. And as he spoke, thrust his wrists beneath his coat tails with the air of a man who was in the habit of propounding some regular posers. Pretty busy, huh? said the little man. Oh, very well, sir, replied Sam. We shouldn't be bankrupts and we shouldn't make our fortunes. We eat our biled mutton without capers and don't care for horseradish when we can get beef. Ah, said the little man. You're a wag, ain't you? My eldest brother was troubled with that complaint, said Sam. It may be catching. I used to sleep with him. This is a curious old house of yours. said the little man, looking round him. If you had sent word you was a coming, would I had it repaired? replied the impotable Sam. The little man seemed rather baffled by these several repulses and a short consultation took place between him and the two plum gentlemen. At its conclusion, the little man took a pinch of snuff from an oblong silver box and was apparently on the point of renewing the conversation when one of the plum gentlemen, who in addition to a benevolent countenance, possessed a pair of spectacles and a pair of black-gators, interfered. The fact of the matter is, said the benevolent gentlemen, that my friend here, pointing to the other plum gentlemen, will give you half a guinea if you will answer one or two. Now, my dear sir, my dear sir, said the little man. Pray, allow me, my dear sir. The very first principle to be observed in these cases is this. If you place the matter in the hands of a professional man, you must in no way interfere in the progress of the business. You must repose implicit confidence in him. Really, mister, he turned to the other plum gentlemen and said, I forget your friend's name. Pickwick, said Mr. Wardle, for it was no other than that jolly personage. Ah, Pickwick, really, Mr. Pickwick, my dear sir, excuse me. I shall be happy to receive any private suggestions of yours as amicus curie, but you must see the impropriety of your interfering with my conduct in this case, with certain at-cap tandem argument as the over half a guinea. Really, my dear sir, really. And the little man took an argumentative pinch of snuff and looked very profound. My only wish, sir, said Mr. Pickwick, was to bring this very unpleasant matter to as speedier close as possible. Quite right, quite right, said the little man. With which view, continued Mr. Pickwick, I made use of the argument which my experience of men has taught me is the most likely to succeed in any case. Ay, ay, said the little man. Very good, very good indeed. But you should have suggested it to me. My dear sir, I'm quite certain you cannot be ignorant of the extent of confidence which must be placed in professional man. If any authority can be necessary on such a point, my dear sir, let me refer you to the well-known case in Barnwell and never mind George Barnwell, interrupted Sam, who had remained a wandering listener during this short colloquy. Everybody knows what sort of a case he was, though it's always been my opinion, mind you, that the young woman deserved scragging a precious site more than he did. However, that's neither here nor there. You want me to accept the fact where will I am agreeable? I can't say no fairer than that, can I sir? Mr. Pickwick smiled. Then the next question is, what the devil do you want with me, as the man said, when he saw the ghost? We want to know, said Mr. Wardle. Now, my dear sir, my dear sir, interpose the busy little man. Mr. Wardle shrugged his shoulders and was silent. We want to know, said the little man solemnly, and we ask the question of you in order that we may not awaken apprehensions inside. We want to know who you've got in this house at present. Who there is in the house? Said Sam, in whose mind the inmates were always represented by that particular article of their costume, which came under his immediate superintendence. There's a wooden lake in number six, there's a pair of hazeons in 13, there's two pair of halves in the commercial, there's these here painted tops in the snaggery inside the bar, and five more tops in the coffee room. Nothing more, said the little man. Stop a bit, replied Sam, suddenly recollecting himself. Yes, there's a pair of valentines, a good deal worn, and a pair of lady shoes in number five. What sort of shoes? Hastily inquired Wardle, who together with Mr. Pickwick had been lost in bewilderment at the singular catalog of visitors. Country make, replied Sam. Any maker's name? Brown. Whereof? Muggleton. It is them, exclaimed Wardle, by heavens we found them. Hush, said Sam. The valentines has gone to Doctor's Commons. No, said the little man. Yes, for a license. Where in time, exclaimed Wardle, show us the room, not a moment is to be lost. Pray, my dear sir, pray, said the little man, caution, caution. He drew from his pocket a red silk purse and looked very hard at Sam as he drew out a sovereign. Sam grinned expressively. Show us into the room at once without announcing us, said the little man, and it's yours. Sam threw the painted tops into a corner and led the way through a dark passage and upper-wide staircase. He paused at the end of a second passage and held out his hand. Here it is, whispered the attorney as he deposited the money on the hand of their guide. The man stepped forward for a few paces, followed by the two friends and their legal advisor. He stopped at the door. Is this the room? Mom had the little gentleman. Sam nodded ascent. Old Wardle opened the door and the whole three walked into the room just as Mr. Jingle, who had that moment returned, had produced the license to the spinster aunt. The spinster uttered a loud shriek and, throwing herself into a chair, covered her face with her hands. Mr. Jingle crumpled up the license and thrust it into his coat pocket. The unwelcome visitors advanced into the middle of the room. You, you are a nice rascal, aren't you? exclaimed Wardle, breathless with passion. My dear sir, my dear sir, said the little man, laying his hat on the table. Pray, consider, pray. Defamation of character, action for damages. Calm yourself, my dear sir, pray. How dare you drag my sister from my house? said the old man. Hey, hey, very good, said the little gentleman. You may ask that. How dare you, sir, answer? Who the devil are you? inquired Mr. Jingle in so fierce a tone that the little gentleman involuntarily fell back a step or two. Who is he? You scoundrel, interposed Wardle. He's my lawyer, Mr. Perker, of Grey's Inn. Perker? I'll have this fellow prosecuted, indicted, I'll ruin him. And you, continued Mr. Wardle, turning a grapple around to his sister. You, Rachel, at a time of life, when you ought to know better what do you mean by running away with a vagabond, disgracing your family and making yourself miserable. Get on your bonnet and come back. Call the Hackney coach there directly and bring this lady's bill. Dear here, dear here. Certainly, sir, replied Sam, who had answered Wardle's violent ringing of the bell with a degree of celerity, which must have appeared marvelous to anybody who didn't know that his eye had been applied to the outside of the keyhole during the whole interview. Get on your bonnet, repeated Wardle. Do nothing of the kind, said Jingle. Leave the room, sir. No business here. Lady's free to act as she pleases. More than one and 20. More than one and 20 ejaculated Wardle contemptuously. More than one and 40. I ain't, said the spinster aunt, her indignation getting the better of her determination to faint. You are, replied Wardle. You're 50 if you're an hour. Here the spinster aunt uttered a loud shriek and became senseless. A glass of water, said the humane Mr. Pickwick summoning the landlady. A glass of water, said the passionate Wardle. Bring the bucket and throw it all over her. It'll do her good, and she richly deserves it. Oh, you brute, ejaculated the kindhearted landlady. Poor dear. And with sundry ejaculations of, come now, there's a deer. Drink a little of this. It'll do you good. Don't give way so. There is a love, et cetera, the landlady, assisted by a chambermaid, proceeded to vinaigrette for it, beat the hands, titillate the nose, and unlace the stays of the spinster aunt, and to administer such other restoratives as are usually applied by compassionate females to ladies who are endeavoring to ferment themselves into hysterics. Coach is ready, sir, said Sam, appearing at the door. Come along, cried Wardle. I'll carry her downstairs. At this proposition, the hysterics came out with redoubled violence. The landlady was about to enter a very violent protest against this proceeding, and had already given vent to an indignant inquiry whether Mr. Wardle considered himself a lord of the creation when Mr. Jingle interposed. Boards, said he, get me an officer. Stay, stay, said little Mr. Parker. Consider, sir, consider. I'll not consider, replied Jingle. She's her own mistress. See who dares to take her away, unless she wishes it. I won't be taken away, murmured the spinster aunt. I don't wish it. Here, there was a frightful relapse. My dear sir, said the little man in a low tone, taking Mr. Wardle and Mr. Pickwick apart. My dear sir, we are in a very awkward situation. It's a distressing case, very. I never knew one more so. But really, my dear sir, really we have no power to control this lady's actions. I warned you before we came, my dear sir, that there was nothing to look to but a compromise. There was a short pause. What kind of compromise would you recommend? Inquired Mr. Pickwick. Why, my dear sir? Our friends in an unpleasant position, very much so. We must be content to suffer some pecuniary loss. I'll suffer any, rather than submit to this disgrace and let her, fool as she is, be made miserable for life, said Wardle. I rather think it can be done, said the bustling little man. Mr. Jingle, will you step with us into the next room for a moment? Mr. Jingle assented, and the quartet walked into an empty apartment. Now, sir, said the little man as he carefully closed the door. Is there no way of accommodating this matter? Step this way, sir, for a moment, into this window, sir, where we can be alone. There, sir, there, praise it down, sir. Now, my dear sir, between you and I, we know very well, my dear sir, that you have run off with this lady for the sake of her money. Don't frown, sir, don't frown. I say between you and I, we know it. We are both men of the world, and we know very well that our friends here are not her. Mr. Jingle's face gradually relaxed, and something distantly resembling a wink quivered for an instant in his left eye. Very good, very good, said the little man, observing the impression he had made. Now, the fact is that beyond a few hundreds, the lady has little or nothing till the death of her mother, fine old lady, my dear sir. Old, said Mr. Jingle briefly but emphatically. Why, yes, said the Atoni with a slight cough. You are right, my dear sir, she is rather old. She comes of an old family, though, my dear sir. Old in every sense of the word. The founder of that family came into Kent when Julius Caesar invaded Britain. Only one member of it, since, who hasn't lived to 85, and he was beheaded by one of the Henrys. The old lady is not 73 now, my dear sir. The little man paused and took a pinch of snuff. Well, cried Mr. Jingle. Well, my dear sir, you don't take snuff, are? So much the better, expensive habit. Well, my dear sir, you're a fine young man, man of the world, able to push your fortune if you had capital, eh? Well, said Mr. Jingle again. Do you comprehend me? Not quite. Don't you think, now, my dear sir, I put it to you, don't you think, that 50 pounds and liberty would be better than miss Wardle and expectation? Won't do. Not half enough, said Mr. Jingle, rising. Nay, nay, my dear sir. Remonstrated the little Atoni, seizing him by the button. Good round, some. A man like you could travel it in no time. Great deal to be done with 50 pounds, my dear sir. More to be done with 150, replied Mr. Jingle coolly. Well, my dear sir, we won't waste time in splitting straws, resumed the little man. Say, say 70. Won't do, said Mr. Jingle. Don't go away, my dear sir, pray don't hurry, said the little man. 80, come, I'll write you a check at once. Won't do, said Mr. Jingle. Well, my dear sir, well, said the little man, still detaining him. Just tell me what we'll do. Expensive affair, said Mr. Jingle. Money out of pocket, posting, nine pounds, license three. That's 12, compensation, 100, 112. Breach of honor and loss of the lady. Yes, my dear sir, yes, said the little man with a knowing look. Never mind the last two items. That's 112, say 100, come and 20, said Mr. Jingle. Come, come, I'll write you a check, said the little man. And down he sat at the table for that purpose. I'll make it payable the day after tomorrow, said the little man, with a look towards Mr. Wardle. And we can get the lady away meanwhile. Mr. Wardle's sullenly nodded ascent. 100, said the little man. And 20, said Mr. Jingle. My dear sir, demonstrated the little man. Give it him, interposed Mr. Wardle, and let him go. The check was written by the little gentleman and pocketed by Mr. Jingle. Now, leave this house instantly, said Wardle, starting up. My dear sir, urged the little man. And mind, said Mr. Wardle, that nothing should have induced me to make this compromise, not even a regard for my family, if I had not known that the moment you got any money in that pocket of yours, you'd go to the devil faster if possible than you would without it. My dear sir, urged the little man again. Be quiet, Parker, resumed Wardle. Leave the room, sir. Off directly, said the unabashed Jingle. Bye-bye, Pickwick. If any dispassionate spectator could have beheld the countenance of the illustrious man whose name forms the leading feature of the title of his work, during the latter part of this conversation, he would have been almost induced to wonder that the indignant fire which flashed from his eyes did not melt the glasses of his spectacles. So majestic was his wrath. His nostrils delated, and his fists clenched involuntarily as he heard himself addressed by the villain. But he restrained himself again. He did not pulverize him. Here continued the hardened traitor, tossing the license at Mr. Pickwick's feet. Yet the name altered, take home the lady, do for Tappy. Mr. Pickwick was a philosopher, but philosophers are only men in armor after all. The shaft had reached him, penetrated through his philosophical harness to his very heart. In the frenzy of his rage, he hurled the ink stand madly forward and followed it up himself. But Mr. Jingle had disappeared and he found himself caught in the arms of Sam. Hello, said that eccentric functionary. Furnace is cheap where you come from, sir. Self-acting ink dada. It's wrote your mark upon the wall, all gentlemen. Hold still, sir. What's the user running after a man as his maid is lucky and got to the other end of the borrow by his time? Mr. Pickwick's mind, like those of all truly great men, was open to conviction. He was a quick and powerful reasoner and a moment's reflection sufficed to remind him of the impotency of his rage. It subsided as quickly as it had been roused. He panted for breath and looked benignedly round upon his friends. Shelby tell the lamentations that ensued when Miss Wardle found herself deserted by the faithless Jingle. Shelby extract Mr. Pickwick's masterly description of that heart-rending scene. His notebook, blotted with the tears of sympathizing humanity, lies open before us. One word, and it is in the printer's hands. But no, he will be resolute. He will not ring the public bosom with the delineation of such suffering. Slowly and sadly did the two friends and the deserted lady return next day in the Muggleton heavy coach. Dimly and darkly had the somber shadows of a summer's night fallen upon all around and stood within the entrance to Mana Farm. End of chapter 10.