 14 Comprising a brief description of the company at the Peacock assembled and a tale told by a bagman. It is pleasant to turn from contemplating the strife and turmoil of political existence to the peaceful repose of private life. Although in reality no great partisan of either side, Mr. Pickwick was sufficiently fired with Mr. Potts' enthusiasm to apply his whole time and attention to the proceedings, of which the last chapter affords a description compiled from his own memoranda. Nor while he was thus occupied was Mr. Winkle idle, his whole time being devoted to pleasant walks and short country excursions with Mrs. Potts, who never failed when such an opportunity presented itself to seek some relief from the tedious monotony she so constantly complained of. The two gentlemen, being thus completely domesticated in the editor's house, Mr. Tubman and Mr. Snodgrass were in a great measure cast upon their own resources. Taking but little interest in public affairs, they beguiled their time chiefly with such amusements as the Peacock afforded, which were limited to a vagatelle board in the first floor and a sequestered skittle ground in the backyard. In the science and nicety of both these recreations, which are far more obstruous than ordinary men suppose, they were gradually initiated by Mr. Weller, who possessed a perfect knowledge of such pastimes. Thus, notwithstanding that they were in a great measure deprived of the comfort and advantage of Mr. Pickwick's society, they were still enabled to be guiled by the time and to prevent its hanging heavily on their hands. It was in the evening, however, that the Peacock presented attractions, which enabled the two friends to resist even the invitations of the gifted though prosy pot. It was in the evening that the commercial room was filled with a social circle whose characters and manners it was the delight of Mr. Tubman to observe, whose sayings and doings it was the habit of Mr. Snodgrass to note down. Most people know what sort of place as commercial rooms usually are. That one of the Peacock differed in no material respect from the generality of such apartments. That is to say it was a large, bare-looking room, the furniture of which had no doubt been better when it was newer, with a spacious table in the center and a variety of smaller dittos in the corners, an extensive assortment of variously shaped chairs, and an old turkey carpet bearing about the same relative proportion to the size of the room as a lady's pocket-hangerchief might to the floor of a watchbox. The walls were garnished with one or two large maps and several weather-beaten rough-gray coats with complicated capes dangled from a long row of pegs in one corner. The mantle shelf was ornamented with a wooden ink stand containing one stump of a pen and half a wafer, a road-book and directory, a county history minus the cover, and the mortal remains of a trout in a glass coffin. The atmosphere was redolent of tobacco smoke, the fumes of which had communicated a rather dingy hue to the whole room, and more especially to the dusty red curtains which shaded the windows. On the sideboard a variety of miscellaneous articles were huddled together, the most conspicuous of which were some very cloudy fish-sauce croutes, a couple of driving-boxes, two or three whips, and as many traveling shawls, a tray of knives and forks, and the mustard. Here it was that Mr. Tutman and Mr. Snodgrass were seated on the evening after the conclusion of the election with several other temporary inmates of the house smoking and drinking. Well, gents set a stout hail personage of about forty, with only one eye, a very bright black eye which twinkled with a roguish expression of fun and good humor. Our noble salves, gents. I always propose that toast to the company and drink merry to myself, eh, merry? Get along with you, you wretches of the handmaiden, obviously not ill-pleased with the compliment, however. Don't go away, merry, said the black-eyed man. Let me alone in prints, said the young lady. Never mind, said the one-eyed man, calling after the girl as she left the room. I'll step out by and by, merry, keep your spirits up, dear. Here he went through the not very difficult process of winking upon the company with his solitary eye, to the enthusiastic delight of an elderly personage with a dirty face and a clay pipe. Rum-creeders as women, said the dirty-faced man after a pause. Ah, no mistake about that, said a very red-faced man behind a cigar. After this little bit of philosophy there was another pause. There's rumber things than women in this world, though, mind you, said the man with the black eye, slowly filling a large Dutch pipe with a most capacious bowl. Are you married, inquired the dirty-faced man? Can't say I am. I thought not. Here the dirty-faced man fell into ecstasies of mirth at his own retort in which he was joined by a man of land voice and placid countenance who always made it a point to agree with everybody. Women, after all, gentlemen, said the enthusiastic Mr. Snodgrass, are the great props and comforts of our existence. So they are, said the placid gentleman. When they're in a good humor, interposed the dirty-faced man. And that's very true, said the placid one. I repudiate that qualification, said Mr. Snodgrass, whose thoughts were fast-preverting to Emily Wardle. I repudiate it with disdain, with indignation. Show me the man who says anything against women as women, and I boldly declare he is not a man. And Mr. Snodgrass took his cigar from his mouth and struck the table violently with his clenched fist. That's a good sound argument, said the placid man, containing a position which I deny interrupted he of the dirty countenance. And there's certainly a very great deal of truth in what you observe too, sir, said the placid gentleman. Your health, sir, said the bag man with the lonely eye, bestowing an approving nod on Mr. Snodgrass. Mr. Snodgrass acknowledged the compliment. I always like to hear a good argument, continued the bag man, a sharp one like this. It's very improving, but this little argument about women brought to my mind a story I have heard an old uncle of mine tell, the recollection of which just now made me say there were rumber things than women to be met with sometimes. I should like to hear that same story, said the red-faced man with the cigar. Should you, was the only reply of the bag man who continued to smoke with great vehemence. So should I, said Mr. Tubman, speaking for the first time. He was always anxious to increase his stock of experience. Should you? Well, then I'll tell it. No, I won't. I know you won't believe it, said the man with the roguish eye, making that organ look more roguish than ever. If you say it's true, of course I shall, said Mr. Tubman. Well, upon that understanding I'll tell you, replied the traveler. Did you ever hear of the great commercial house of Bilson and Slum? But it doesn't matter, though, whether you did or not, because they retired from business long since. It's 80 years ago, since the circumstance happened to a traveler for that house, but he was a particular friend of my uncles, and my uncle told the story to me. It's a queer name, but he used to call it the bag man's story. And he used to tell it something in this way. One winter's evening, about five o'clock, just as it began to grow dusk, a man in a gig might have been seen urging his tired horse along the road, which leads across Marlborough Downs in the direction of Bristol. I say he might have been seen, and I have no doubt he would have been if anybody but a blind man had happened to pass that way. But the weather was so bad and the night so cold and wet that nothing was out but the water. And so the traveler jogged along in the middle of the road, lonesome and dreary enough. If any bag man of that day could have caught sight of the little neck or nothing sort of gig with a clay-colored body and red wheels and the vixenish, ill-tempered, fast-going bay mare that looked like a cross between a butcher's horse and a two-penny post office pony, he would have known at once that this traveler could have been no other than Tom Smart of the great house of Bilson and Slum, Catetan Street City. However, as there was no bag man to look on, nobody knew anything at all about the matter. And so Tom Smart and his clay-colored gig with the red wheels and the vixenish mare with the fast pace went on together, keeping the secret among them and nobody was a bit the wiser. There are many pleasanter places, even in this dreary world, than Marlborough Downs when it blows hard. And if you throw in beside a gloomy winter's evening, a myriad and sloppy road and a pelting fall of heavy rain and try the effect by way of experiment in your own proper person, you will experience the full force of this observation. The wind blew, not up the road or down it, though that's bad enough, but sheer across it, sending the rain slanting down like the lines they used to rule in the copy books at school to make the boys' slope well. For a moment it would die away and the traveler would begin to delude himself into the belief that exhausted with its previous fury it had quietly laid itself down to rest when he could hear growling and whistling in the distance and on it would come rushing over the hill tops and sweeping along the plain, gathering sound and strength as it drew nearer until it dashed with a heavy gust against horse and man, driving the sharp rain into their ears and its cold damp breath into their very bones and past them it would scour far, far away with a stunning roar as if in ridicule of their weakness and triumphant in the consciousness of its own strength and power. The bay mare splashed away through the mud and water with drooping ears, now and then tossing her head as if to express her disgust at this very un-gentlemanly behavior of the elements but keeping a good pace, not withstanding until a gust of wind more furious than any that had yet assailed them caused her to stop suddenly and plant her four feet firmly against the ground to prevent her being blown over. It's a special mercy that she did this for if she had been blown over the vixenish mare was so light and the gig was so light and Tom Smart such a lightweight into the bargain that they must infallibly have all gone rolling over and over together until they reached the confines of earth or until the wind fell, and in either case the probability is that neither the vixenish mare nor the clay-colored gig with the red wheels nor Tom Smart would ever have been fit for service again. Well, damn nice draps and whiskers, says Tom Smart. Tom sometimes had an unpleasant knack of swearing. Damn nice draps and whiskers, says Tom. If this ain't pleasant, blow me. You'll very likely ask me why as Tom Smart had been pretty well blown already, he expressed this wish to be submitted to the same process again. I can't say. All I know is that Tom Smart said so or at least he always told my uncle he said so and it's just the same thing. Blow me, says Tom Smart. And the mare in need is if she were precisely of the same opinion. Cheer up old girl, said Tom, patting the bay mare on the neck with the end of his whip. It won't do pushing on such a night as this. The first house we come to will put up at so the faster you go, the sooner it's over. So, old girl, gently, gently. Whether the vixenish mare was sufficiently well equated with the tones of Tom's voice to comprehend his meaning or whether she found it colder standing still than moving on, of course I can't say. But I can say that Tom had no sooner finished speaking than she picked up her ears and started forward at a speed which made the clay-colored gig rattle until you would have supposed every one of the red spokes were going to fly out on the turf of Marlborough Downs. And even Tom, whip as he was, couldn't stop or check her pace until she drew up of her own accord before our roadside in on the right-hand side of the way, about half a quarter of a mile from the end of the Downs. Tom cast a hasty glance at the upper part of the house as he threw the range to the hostler and stuck the whip in the box. It was a strange old place, built of a kind of shingle, inlaid as it were with crossbeams, with gabled, topped windows projecting completely over the pathway and a low door with a dark porch and a couple of steep steps leading down into the house instead of the modern fashion of half a dozen shallow ones leading up to it. It was a comfortable-looking place, though, but there was a strong cheerful light in the bar window, which shed a bright ray across the road and even lighted up the hedge on the other side. And there was a red flickering light in the opposite window, one moment but faintly discernible, and the next gleaming strongly through the drawn curtains, which intimated that a rousing fire was blazing within. Marking these little evidences with the eye of an experienced traveler, Tom dismounted with as much agility as his half-growsen limbs would permit and entered the house. In less than five minutes' time, Tom was ensconced in the room opposite the bar, the very room where he had imagined the fire blazing before a substantial matter-of-fact roaring fire composed of something short of a bushel of coals and wood enough to make half a dozen decent gooseberry bushes piled halfway up the chimney and roaring and crackling with a sound that of itself would have warmed the heart of any reasonable man. This was comfortable, but this was not all. For a smartly dressed girl with a bright eye and a neat ankle was laying a very clean white cloth on the table. And as Tom sat with his slipped feet on the fender and just back to the open door, he saw a charming prospect of the bar reflected in the glass over the chimney piece with delightful rows of green bottles and gold labels, together with jars of pickles and preserves and cheeses and boiled hams and rounds of beef, arranged on shelves in the most tempting and delicious array. Well, this was comfortable too, but even this was not all. For in the bar, seated at tea, at the nicest possible little table, drawn close up before the brightest possible little fire was a buxom widow of somewhere about eight and 40 or thereabouts, where the face is comfortable as the bar who was evidently the landlady of the house and the supreme ruler over all these agreeable possessions. There was only one drawback to the beauty of the whole picture and that was a tall man, a very tall man, in a brown coat and bright basket buttons and black whiskers and wavy black hair who was seated at tea with the widow and who it required no great penetration to discover was in a fair way of persuading her to be a widow no longer but to confer upon him the privilege of sitting down in that bar for and during the whole remainder of the term of his natural life. Tom Smart was by no means of an irritable or envious disposition, but somehow or other the tall man with the brown coat and the bright basket buttons did rouse what little gall he had in his composition and did make him feel extremely indignant, the more especially as he could now and then observe from his seat before the glass certain little affectionate familiarities passing between the tall man and the widow which sufficiently denoted that the tall man was as high in favor as he was in size. Tom was fond of hot punch, I may venture to say he was very fond of hot punch and after he had seen the vixenish mare well fed and well littered down and had eaten every bit of the nice little hot dinner which the widow tossed up for him with her own hands he just ordered a tumbler of it by way of experiment. Now, if there was one thing in the whole range of domestic art which the widow could manufacture better than another it was this identical article and the first tumbler was adapted to Tom Smart's taste with such peculiar nicety that he ordered a second with the least possible delay. Hot punch is a pleasant thing gentlemen an extremely pleasant thing under any circumstances but in that snug old parlor before the roaring fire with the wind blowing outside till every timber in the old house creaked again Tom Smart found it perfectly delightful. He ordered another tumbler and then another. I am not quite certain whether he didn't order another after that but the more he drank of the hot punch the more he thought of the tall man. Count found his impudence, said Tom to himself what business has he in that snug bar such an ugly villain too, said Tom if the widow had any taste she might surely pick up some better fellow than that. Here Tom's eye wandered from the glass on the chimney piece to the glass on the table and as he felt himself becoming gradually sentimental he emptied the fourth tumbler of punch and ordered a fifth. Tom Smart gentlemen had always been very much attached to the public line. It had been long his ambition to stand in a bar of his own in a green coat, knee cords and tops. He had a great notion of taking the chair at convivial dinners and he had often thought how well he could preside in a room of his own in the talking way and what a capital example he could set to his customers in the drinking department. All these things passed rapidly through Tom's mind as he sat drinking the hot punch by the roaring fire and he felt very justly and properly indignant that the tall man should be in a fair way of keeping such an excellent house while he, Tom Smart, was as far off from it as ever. So after deliberating over the two last tumblers whether he had a perfect right to pick a quarrel with the tall man for having contrived to get into the good graces of the Buxom widow Tom Smart at last arrived at the satisfactory conclusion that he was a very ill used and persecuted individual and had better go to bed. Up a wide and ancient staircase the Smart girl preceded Tom shading the chamber candle with her hand to protect it from the currents of air which in such a rambling old place might have found plenty of room to despot themselves in without blowing the candle out but which did blow it out nevertheless. Thus supporting Tom's enemies an opportunity of asserting that it was he and not the wind who extinguished the candle and that while he pretended to be blowing at a light again he was in fact kissing the girl. Be this as it may another light was obtained and Tom was conducted through a maze of rooms and a labyrinth of passages to the apartment which had been prepared for his reception where the girl bathed him good night and left him alone. It was a good large room with big closets and a bed which might have served for a whole boarding school to say nothing of a couple of oak and presses that would have held the baggage of a small army but what struck Tom's fancy most was a strange grim looking high back chair carved in the most fantastic manner with a flowered to mass cushion and the round knobs at the bottom of the legs carefully tied up in red cloth as if it had got the gout in its toes. Of any other queer chair Tom would only have thought it was a queer chair and there would have been an end of the matter but there was something about this particular chair and Jenny couldn't tell what it was so odd and so unlike any other piece of furniture he had ever seen that it seemed to fascinate him. He sat down before the fire and stared at the old chair for half an hour. Damn the chair, it was such a strange old thing he couldn't take his eyes off it. Well said Tom slowly undressing himself and staring at the old chair all the while which stood with a mysterious aspect by the bedside. I never saw such a rum concern as that in my days. Very odd said Tom who had got rather sage with the hot punch. Very odd. Tom shook his head with an air of profound wisdom and looked at the chair again. He couldn't make anything of it though so he got into bed, covered himself up warm and fell asleep. In about half an hour Tom woke up with a start from a confused dream of tall men and tumblers of punch and the first object that presented itself to his waking imagination was the queer chair. I won't look at it anymore. Said Tom to himself and he squeezed his eyelids together and tried to persuade himself he was going to sleep again. No use, nothing but queer chairs danced before his eyes kicking up their legs, jumping over each other's backs and playing all kinds of antics. I may as well see one real chair as two or three complete sets of false ones. Said Tom, bringing out his head from under the bed clothes. There it was, plainly discernible by the light of the fire looking as provoking as ever. Tom gazed at the chair and suddenly as he looked at it the most extraordinary change seemed to come over it. The carving of the back gradually assumed the lineaments and expression of an old shriveled human face. The damask cushion became an antique flapped waistcoat. The round knobs grew into a couple of feet encased in red cloth slippers and the whole chair looked like a very ugly old man of the previous century with his arms a Kimbo. Tom sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes to dispel the illusion. No, the chair was an ugly old gentleman and what was more, he was winking at Tom's mark. Tom was naturally a headlong careless sort of dog and he had had five tumblers of hot punch into the bargain. So although he was a little startled at first he began to grow rather indignant when he saw the old gentleman winking and leering at him with such an impudent air. At length he resolved that he wouldn't stand it and as the old face still kept winking away as fast as ever Tom sat in a very angry tone. What the devil are you winking at me for? Because I like it Tom's smart. So the chair or the old gentleman whichever you like to call him he stopped winking though when Tom spoke and began grinning like a superannuated monkey. How do you know my name? Well, not cracker face inquired Tom's smart rather staggered though he pretended to carry it off so well. Come, come Tom said the old gentleman. That's not the way to address a solid Spanish mahogany. Dammy you couldn't treat me with less respect if I was veneered. When the old gentleman said this he looked so fierce that Tom began to grow frightened. I didn't mean to treat you with any disrespect sir. Said Tom in a much humbler tone than he had spoken in at first. Well well said the old fellow perhaps not. Perhaps not. Tom, sir. I know everything about you Tom everything. You're very poor Tom. I certainly am said Tom smart. But how came you to know that? Nevermind that said the old gentleman. You're much too fond of punch Tom. Tom smart was just on the point of protesting that he hadn't tasted a drop since his last birthday. But when his eye encountered that of the old gentleman he looked so knowing that Tom blushed and was silent. Tom said the old gentleman the widow's a fine woman. Remarkably fine woman, eh Tom? Here the old fellow screwed up his eyes cocked up one of his waist and little legs and looked all together so unpleasantly amorous that Tom was quite disgusted with the levity of his behavior at his time of life too. I am her guardian Tom said the old gentleman. Are you? inquired Tom smart. I knew her mother Tom said the old fellow and her grandmother. She was very fond of me. Made me this waistcoat Tom. Did she? Said Tom smart. And these shoes said the old fellow lifting up one of the red cloth mufflers. But don't mention it Tom. I shouldn't like to have it known that she was so much attached to me at my occasion some unpleasantness in the family. When the old rascal said this he looked so extremely impertinent that as Tom smart afterwards declared he could have sat upon him without remorse. I have been a great favorite among the women in my time Tom said the profligate old debauchee. Hundreds of fine women have sat in my lap for hours together. What do you think of that you dog A. The old gentleman was proceeding to recount some other exploits of his youth when he was seized with such a violent fit of creaking that he was unable to proceed. Just serves you right old boy thought Tom smart but he didn't say anything. Ah said the old fellow. I am a good deal troubled with this now. I am getting old Tom and have lost nearly all my rails. I have had an operation performed too. A small piece led into my back and I found it a severe trial Tom. I dare say you did sir said Tom smart. However said the old gentleman that's not the point. Tom I want you to marry the widow. Me sir said Tom. You said the old gentleman. Bless your reverend locks said Tom. He had a few scattered horse hairs left. Bless your reverend locks she wouldn't have me. And Tom sighed involuntarily as he thought of the bar. Wouldn't she said the old gentleman firmly. No, no said Tom. There's somebody else in the wind. A tall man, a confoundedly tall man with black whiskers. Tom said the old gentleman. She will never have him. Won't she said Tom. If you stood in the bar old gentleman you'd tell another story. Poo poo said the old gentleman. I know all about that. About what said Tom. The kissing behind the door and all that sort of thing Tom said the old gentleman. And here he gave another impudent look which made Tom very wroth because as you all know gentlemen to hear an old fellow who ought to know better talking about these things is very unpleasant. Nothing more so. I know all about that Tom said the old gentleman. I have seen it done very often in my time Tom between more people than I should like to mention to you. But it never came to anything after all. You must have seen some queer things said Tom with an inquisitive look. You may say that Tom replied the old fellow with a very complicated wink. I am the last of my family Tom said the old gentleman with a melancholy sigh. Was it a large one inquired Tom Smart. There were 12 of us Tom said the old gentleman. Fine straight back handsome fellows as you'd wish to see. None of your modern abortions all with arms and for the degree of polish though I say it that should not which it would have done your heart good to behold. And what's become of the other sir asked Tom Smart. The old gentleman applied his elbow to his eye as he replied gone Tom gone. We had hard service Tom and they hadn't all my constitution. They got rheumatic about the legs and arms and went into kitchens and other hospitals. And one of them with long service and hard usage positively lost his senses. He got so crazy that it was obliged to be burnt. Shocking thing that Tom dreadful said Tom Smart. The old fellow paused for a few minutes apparently struggling with his feelings of emotion and then said however Tom I am wandering from the point. This tall man Tom is a rascally adventurer. The moment he married the widow he would sell off all the furniture and run away. What would be the consequence? She would be deserted and reduced to ruin and I should catch my death of cold in some broker's shop. Yes but don't interrupt me said the old gentleman. Of you Tom I entertain a very different opinion for I well know that if you once settled yourself in a public house you would never leave it as long as there was anything to drink within its walls. I am very much obliged to you for your good opinion sir said Tom Smart. Therefore resumed the old gentleman in a dictatorial tone you shall have her and he shall not. What is to prevent it said Tom Smart eagerly. This disclosure replied the old gentleman. He is already married. How can I prove it said Tom starting half out of bed. The old gentleman untucked his arm from his side and having pointed to one of the oak and presses immediately replaced it in its old position. He little thinks said the old gentleman that in the right hand pocket of a pair of trousers in that press he has left a letter and treating him to return to his disconsolate wife with six Mark Meetown six babes and all of them small ones. As the old gentleman solemnly uttered these words his features grew less and less distinct and his figure more shadowy. A film came over Tom Smart's eyes. The old man seemed gradually blending into the chair. The Damasque waistcoat to resolve into a cushion. The red slippers to shrink into little red cloth bags. The light faded gently away and Tom Smart fell back on his pillow and dropped asleep. Morning aroused Tom from the lethargic slumber into which he had fallen on the disappearance of the old man. He sat up in bed and for some minutes vainly endeavored to recall the events of the preceding night. Suddenly they rushed upon him. He looked at the chair. It was a fantastic and grim looking piece of furniture certainly, but it must have been a remarkably ingenious and lively imagination that could have discovered any resemblance between it and an old man. How are you old boy? Said Tom. He was bolder in the daylight. Most men are. The chair remained motionless and spoke not a word. Miserable morning, said Tom. No, the chair would not be drawn into conversation. Which press did you point to? You can tell me that, said Tom. Devil or word, gentlemen, the chair would say. It's not much trouble to open it anyhow, said Tom, getting out of the bed very deliberately. He walked up to one of the presses. The key was in the lock. He turned it and opened the door. There was a pair of trousers there. He put his hand into the pocket and drew forth the identical letter the old gentleman had described. Queer sort of thing this, said Tom Smart, looking first at the chair and then at the press and then at the letter and then at the chair again. Very queer, said Tom. But as there was nothing in either to lessen the queerness, he thought he might as well dress himself and settle the tall man's business at once just to put him out of his misery. Tom surveyed the rooms he passed through on his way downstairs with a scrutinizing eye of a landlord, thinking it not impossible but before long they and their contents would be his property. The tall man was standing in the snug little bar with his hands behind him, quite at home. He grinned vacantly at Tom. A casual observer might have supposed he did it only to show his white teeth. But Tom Smart thought that a consciousness of triumph was passing through the place where the tall man's mind would have been if he had had any. Tom laughed in his face and summoned the landlady. Good morning, ma'am, said Tom Smart, closing the door of the little parlor as the widow entered. Good morning, sir, said the widow. What will you take for breakfast, sir? Tom was thinking how he should open the case so he made no answer. There's a very nice ham, said the widow, and a beautiful cold larded fowl. Shall I send them in, sir? These words roused Tom from his reflections. His admiration of the widow increased as she spoke. Thoughtful creature, comfortable provider. Who is that gentleman in the bar, ma'am? inquired Tom. His name is Jinkins, sir, said the widow, slightly blushing. He's a tall man, said Tom. He is a very fine man, sir, replied the widow, and a very nice gentleman. Ah, said Tom. Is there anything more you want, sir? inquired the widow, rather puzzled by Tom's manner. Why, yes, said Tom. My dear ma'am, will you have the kindness to sit down for one moment? The widow looked much amazed, but she sat down, and Tom sat down too, close beside her. I don't know how it happened, gentlemen. Indeed, my uncle used to tell me that Tom Smart said he didn't know how it happened either. But somehow or other, the palm of Tom's hand fell upon the back of the widow's hand and remained there while he spoke. My dear ma'am, said Tom Smart. He had always a great notion of committing the amiable. My dear ma'am, you deserve a very excellent husband. You do indeed. Lore, sir, said the widow, as well as she might. Tom's motive commencing the conversation being rather unusual, not to say startling. The fact of his never having set eyes upon her before the previous night being taken into consideration. Lore, sir, I scorned a platter, my dear ma'am, said Tom Smart. You deserve a very admirable husband, and whoever he is, he'll be a very lucky man. As Tom said this, his eye involuntarily wandered from the widow's face to the comfort around him. The widow looked more puzzled than ever and made an effort to rise. Tom gently pressed her hand as if to detain her, and she kept her seat. Widow's gentlemen are not usually timorous, says my uncle used to say. I am sure I am very much obliged to you, sir, for your good opinion, said the Buxomland lady, half-laping, and, if ever, I marry again. If, said Tom Smart, looking very shrewdly out of the right-hand corner of his left eye, if, well, said the widow, laughing out right this time, when I do, I hope I shall have as good a husband as you describe. Jinkins to wit, said Tom. Lore, sir, exclaimed the widow. Oh, don't tell me, said Tom, I know him. I am sure nobody who knows him knows anything bad of him, said the widow, bridling up at the mysterious air with which Tom had spoken. Huh, said Tom Smart. The widow began to think it was high time to cry, so she took out her handkerchief, and inquired whether Tom wished to insult her, whether he thought it like a gentleman to take away the character of another gentleman behind his back. Why, if he had got anything to say, he didn't say it to the man like a man, instead of terrifying a poor, weak woman in that way, and so forth. I'll say it to him fast enough, said Tom, only I want you to hear it first. What is it, inquired the widow, looking intently in Tom's countenance? I'll astonish you, said Tom, putting his hand in his pocket. If it is that he wants money, said the widow, I know that already, and you needn't trouble yourself. Poo, nonsense, that's nothing, said Tom Smart. I want money, taint that. Oh dear, what can it be, exclaimed the poor widow. Don't be frightened, said Tom Smart. He slowly drew forth the letter and unfolded it. You won't scream, said Tom doubtfully. No, no, replied the widow, let me see it. You won't go fainting away or any of that nonsense, said Tom. No, no, returned the widow hastily. And don't run out and blow him up, said Tom, because I'll do all that for you. You would better not exert yourself. Well, well, said the widow, let me see it. I will, replied Tom Smart, and with these words he placed the letter in the widow's hand. Gentlemen, I have heard my uncle say that Tom Smart said the widow's lamentations when she heard the disclosure would have pierced a heart of stone. Tom was certainly very tender-hearted, but they pierced his to the very core. The widow rocked herself to and fro and wrung her hands. Oh, the deception and villainy of the man, said the widow. Frightful, my dear man, but compose yourself, said Tom Smart. Oh, I can't compose myself, shrieked the widow. I shall never find anyone else I can love so much. Oh, yes you will, my dear soul, said Tom Smart, letting fall a shower of the largest-sized tears and pity for the widow's misfortunes. Tom Smart, in the energy of his compassion, had put his arm round the widow's waist, and the widow, in a passion of grief, had clasped Tom's hand. She looked up in Tom's face and smiled through her tears. Tom looked down in hers and smiled through his. I never could find out, gentlemen, whether Tom did or did not kiss the widow at that particular moment. He used to tell my uncle he didn't, but I have my doubts about it. Between ourselves, gentlemen, I rather think he did. At all events, Tom kicked the very tall man out at the front door half an hour later, and married the widow a month after. And he used to drive about the country with the clay-colored gig with the red wheels and the vixenish mare with the fast pace till he gave up business many years afterwards and went to France with his wife, and then the old house was pulled down. Well, you allow me to ask you, said the inquisitive old gentleman, what became of the chair? Why? replied the one-eyed bagman. It was observed to creak very much on the day of the wedding, but Tom Smart couldn't say for certain whether it was with pleasure or bodily infirmity. He rather thought it was the latter, though, for it never spoke afterwards. Everybody believed the story, didn't they? Said the dirty-faced man, refilling his pipe. Except Tom's enemies, replied the bagman. Some of them said Tom invented it altogether, and others said he was drunk and fancied it and got hold of the wrong trousers by mistake before he went to bed, but nobody ever minded what they said. Tom Smart said it was all true? Every word. And your uncle? Every letter. They must have been very nice men, both of them, said the dirty-faced man. Yes, they were, replied the bagman, very nice men indeed. End of chapter 14. Chapter 15 of the Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Deborah Lynn. The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens. Chapter 15, in which is given a faithful portraiture of two distinguished persons and an accurate description of a public breakfast in their house and grounds, which public breakfast leads to the recognition of an old acquaintance and the commencement of another chapter. Mr. Pickwick's conscience had been somewhat reproaching him for his recent neglect of his friends at the Peacock, and it was just on the point of walking forth in quest of them, on the third morning after the election had terminated, when his faithful valet put into his hand a card on which was engraved the following inscription. Mrs. Leo Hunter, the den, eaten swell. Persons awaitin', said Sam epigrammatically. Does the person want me, Sam? Inquired Mr. Pickwick. He wants you particular, and no one else'll do, as the devil's private secretary said when he fetched away Dr. Faustus, replied Mr. Weller. He? Is it a gentleman? Said Mr. Pickwick. A very good imitation, and one if it ain't, replied Mr. Weller. But this is a lady's card, said Mr. Pickwick. Given me by a gentleman, howsoever, replied Sam, and he's awaiting in the drawing room, said he'd rather wait all day than not see you. Mr. Pickwick, on hearing this determination, descended to the drawing room where sat a grave man who started up on his entrance and sat with an air of profound respect. Mr. Pickwick, I presume? The same. Allow me, sir, the honor of grasping your hand. Permit me, sir, to shake it, said the grave man. Certainly, said Mr. Pickwick, the stranger shook the extended hand and then continued. We have heard of your fame, sir. The noise of your antiquarian discussion has reached the ears of Mrs. Leo Hunter, my wife, sir. I am Mr. Leo Hunter. The stranger paused as if he expected that Mr. Pickwick would be overcome by the disclosure, but seeing that he remained perfectly calm proceeded. My wife, sir, Mrs. Leo Hunter, is proud to number among her acquaintance all those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their works and talents. Permit me, sir, to place in a conspicuous part of the list the name of Mr. Pickwick and his brother members of the club that derives its name from him. I shall be extremely happy to make the acquaintance of such a lady, sir, replied Mr. Pickwick. You shall make it, sir, said the grave man. Tomorrow morning, sir, we give a public breakfast, a fete champetre, to a great number of those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their works and talents. Permit Mrs. Leo Hunter, sir, to have the gratification of seeing you at the den. With great pleasure, replied Mr. Pickwick. Mrs. Leo Hunter has many of these breakfasts, sir, resumed the new acquaintance, feasts of reason, sir, and flows of soul as somebody who wrote a sonnet to Mrs. Leo Hunter on her breakfasts, feelingly and originally observed. Was he celebrated for his works and talents, inquired Mr. Pickwick. He was, sir, replied the grave man. All Mrs. Leo Hunter's acquaintances are. It is her ambition, sir, to have no other acquaintance. It is a very noble ambition, said Mr. Pickwick. When I informed Mrs. Leo Hunter that that remark fell from your lips, sir, she will indeed be proud, said the grave man. You have a gentleman in your train who has produced some beautiful little poems, I think, sir. My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a great taste for poetry, replied Mr. Pickwick. So has Mrs. Leo Hunter, sir. She dokes on poetry, sir. She adores it. I may say that her whole soul and mind are wound up and entwined with it. She has produced some delightful pieces herself, sir. You may have met with her owed to an expiring frog, sir. I don't think I have, said Mr. Pickwick. You astonish me, sir, said Mr. Leo Hunter. It created an immense sensation. It was signed with an L and eight stars and appeared originally in a ladies magazine. It commenced. Can I view thee panting, lying on thy stomach without sighing? Can I unmoved see thee dying on a log expiring frog? Beautiful, said Mr. Pickwick. Fine, said Mr. Leo Hunter, so simple. Very, said Mr. Pickwick. The next verse is still more touching. Shall I repeat it? If you please, said Mr. Pickwick. It runs thus, said the grave man, still more gravely. Say, have fiends in shape of boys with wild, hallow and brutal noise hunted thee from marshy joys with the dog expiring frog. Finally expressed, said Mr. Pickwick. All point, sir, said Mr. Leo Hunter. But you shall hear Mrs. Leo Hunter repeat it. She can do justice to it, sir. She will repeat it in character, sir, tomorrow morning. In character? Asma Nerva, but I forgot. It's a fancy dress, Dejeuner. Dear me, said Mr. Pickwick, glancing at his own figure. I can't possibly. Can't, sir? Can't, exclaimed Mr. Leo Hunter. Solomon Lucas, the Jew in the High Street, has thousands of fancy dresses. Consider, sir, how many appropriate characters are open for your selection. Plato, Zeno, Epicurus, Pythagoras, all founders of clubs. I know that, said Mr. Pickwick. But as I cannot put myself in competition with those great men, I cannot presume to wear their dresses. The grave man considered deeply for a few seconds and then said, on reflection, sir, I don't know whether it would not afford Mrs. Leo Hunter greater pleasure if her guests saw a gentleman of your celebrity in his own costume rather than in an assumed one. I may venture to promise an exception in your case, sir. Yes, I am quite certain that on behalf of Mrs. Leo Hunter, I may venture to do so. In that case, said Mr. Pickwick, I shall have great pleasure in coming. But I waste your time, sir, so the grave man is of suddenly recollecting himself. I know its value, sir. I will not detain you. I may tell Mrs. Leo Hunter then that she may confidently expect you and your distinguished friends. Good morning, sir. I am proud to have beheld so eminent a personage, not a step, sir, not a word. And without giving Mr. Pickwick time to offer a monstrance or denial, Mr. Leo Hunter stalked gravely away. Mr. Pickwick took up his hat and repaired to the peacock. But Mr. Winkle had conveyed the intelligence of the fancy ball there before him. Mrs. Potts going, were the first words with which he saluted his leader? Is she, said Mr. Pickwick? As Apollo, replied Winkle, only Potts objects to the tunic. He is right, he is quite right, said Mr. Pickwick emphatically. Yes, so she's going to wear a white satin gown with gold spangles. They'll hardly know what she's meant for, will they? inquired Mr. Snodgrass. Of course they will, replied Mr. Winkle indignantly. They'll see her liar, won't they? True, I forgot that, said Mr. Snodgrass. I shall go as a bandit, interposed Mr. Tupman. What, said Mr. Pickwick with a sudden start? As a bandit, repeated Mr. Tupman mildly. You don't mean to say, said Mr. Pickwick, gazing with solemn sternness at his friend. You don't mean to say, Mr. Tupman, that it is your intention to put yourself into a green velvet jacket with a two inch tail? Such is my intention, sir, replied Mr. Tupman warmly, and why not, sir? Because, sir, said Mr. Pickwick, considerably excited, because you are too old, sir. Too old, exclaimed Mr. Tupman, and if any further ground of objection be wanting, continued Mr. Pickwick, you are too fat, sir. Sir, said Mr. Tupman, his face suffused with a crimson glow. This is an insult. Sir, replied Mr. Pickwick in the same tone, it is not half the insult to you that your appearance in my presence in a green velvet jacket with a two inch tail would be to me. Sir, said Mr. Tupman, you're a fellow. Sir, said Mr. Pickwick, you're another. Mr. Tupman advanced a step or two and glared at Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick returned to the glare, concentrated into a focus by means of his spectacles, and breathed a bold defiance. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle looked on, petrified at beholding such a scene between two such men. Sir, said Mr. Tupman, after a short pause, speaking in a low, deep voice, you have called me old. I have, said Mr. Pickwick, and fat, I reiterate the charge, and a fellow, so you are. There was a fearful pause. My attachment to your person, sir, said Mr. Tupman, speaking in a voice tremulous with emotion and tucking up his wristbands meanwhile, is great, very great, but upon that person I must take some revengeance. Come on, sir, replied Mr. Pickwick. Stimulated by the exciting nature of the dialogue, the heroic man actually threw himself into a paralytic attitude, confidently supposed by the two bystanders to have been intended as a posture of defense. What, exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, suddenly recovering the power of speech of which intense astonishment had previously bereft him and rushing between the two at the imminent hazard of receiving an application on the temple from each? What, Mr. Pickwick, with the eyes of the world upon you, Mr. Tupman, who in common with us all derives a luster from his undying name, for shame, gentlemen, for shame. The unwanted lines which momentary passion had ruled in Mr. Pickwick's clear and open brow gradually melted away as his young friend spoke, like the marks of a black lead pencil beneath the softening influence of India rubber. His countenance had resumed its usual benign expression ere he concluded, I have been hasty, said Mr. Pickwick, very hasty, Tupman, your hand. The dark shadow passed from Mr. Tupman's face as he warmly grasped the hand of his friend. I have been hasty, too, said he. No, no, interrupted Mr. Pickwick. The fault was mine. You will wear the green velvet jacket? No, no, replied Mr. Tupman. To oblige me, you will, resumed Mr. Pickwick. Well, well, I will, said Mr. Tupman. It was accordingly settled that Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass should all wear fancy dresses. Thus Mr. Pickwick was led by the very warmth of his own good feelings to give his consent to a proceeding from which his better judgment would have recoiled. A more striking illustration of his amiable character could hardly have been conceived, even if the events recorded in these pages had been wholly imaginary. Mr. Leo Hunter had not exaggerated the resources of Mr. Solomon Lucas. His wardrobe was extensive, very extensive, not strictly classical, perhaps, not quite new, nor did it contain any one garment made precisely after the fashion of any age or time. But everything was more or less spangled in what can be prettier than spangles. It may be objective that they are not adapted to the daylight, but everybody knows that they would glitter if there were lamps. And nothing can be clearer than that if people give fancy balls in the daytime and the dresses did not show quite as well as they would by night, the fault lies solely with the people who give the fancy balls and is in no wise chargeable on the spangles. Such was the convincing reasoning of Mr. Solomon Lucas and influenced by such arguments did Mr. Tubman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass engage to array themselves in costumes which his taste and experience induced him to recommend as admirably suited to the occasion. A carriage was hired from the town arms for the accommodation of the Pickwickians and a chariot was ordered from the same repository for the purpose of conveying Mr. and Mrs. Pot to Mrs. Leo Hunter's grounds, which Mr. Pot, as a delicate acknowledgment of having received an invitation, had already confidently predicted in the Eaton-Swell Gazette would present a scene of varied and delicious enchantment of a wildering coruscation of beauty and talent, a lavish and prodigal display of hospitality, above all a degree of splendor softened by the most exquisite taste, and adornment refined with perfect harmony and the chastest good keeping, compared with which the fabled gorgeousness of Eastern fairyland itself would appear to be clothed in as many dark and murky colors as must be the mind of the splenetic and unmanly being who could presume to taint with the venom of his envy the preparations made by the virtuous and highly distinguished lady at whose shrine this humble tribute of admiration was offered. This last was a piece of biting sarcasm against the independent, who, in consequence of not having been invited at all, had been, through four numbers, affecting to sneer at the whole affair in his very largest type with all the adjectives and capital letters. The morning came. It was a pleasant sight to behold Mr. Tutman in full Brigham's costume with a very tight jacket sitting like a pincushion over his back and shoulders, the upper portion of his legs encased in the velvet shorts, and the lower part, thereof, swathed in the complicated bandages to which all brigands are peculiarly attached. It was pleasing to see his open and ingenuous countenance, well mustachioed and corked, looking out from an open shirt collar and to contemplate the sugar-loaf hat decorated with ribbons of all colors which he was compelled to carry on his knee in as much as no known conveyance with a top to it would admit of any man's carrying it between his head and the roof. Equally humorous and agreeable was the appearance of Mr. Snodgrass in blue satin trunks and cloak, white silk tights and shoes, and Grecian helmet, which everybody knows, and if they do not, Mr. Solomon Lucas did, to have been the regular, authentic, everyday costume of a troubadour from the earliest ages down to the time of their final disappearance from the face of the earth. All this was pleasant, but this was as nothing compared with the shouting of the populace when the carriage drew up behind Mr. Potts' chariot, which chariot itself drew up at Mr. Potts' door, which door itself opened and displayed the great pot, accoutered as a Russian officer of justice with a tremendous note in his hand, tastefully typical of the stern and mighty power of the eat-and-swole gazette, and the fearful lashings that bestowed on public offenders. Bravo! shouted Mr. Tubman and Mr. Snodgrass from the passage when they beheld the walking allegory. Bravo! Mr. Pickwick was heard to exclaim from the passage. Hurrah, Potts! shouted the populace. Amid these salutations, Mr. Potts, smiling with that kind of land dignity, which sufficiently testified that he felt his power and knew how to exert it, got into the chariot. Then there emerged from the house Mrs. Potts, who would have looked very like Apollo if she hadn't had a gown on, conducted by Mr. Winkle, who, in his light red coat, could not possibly have been mistaken for anything but a sportsman, if he had not borne an equal resemblance to a general postman. Last of all came Mr. Pickwick, whom the boys applauded as loud as anybody, probably under the impression that his tights and gaiters were some remnants of the Dark Ages. And then the two vehicles proceeded towards Mrs. Leo Hunter's. Mr. Weller, who was to assist in waiting, being stationed on the box of that in which his master was seated. Every one of the men, women, boys, girls, and babies who were assembled to see the visitors in their fancy dresses, screamed with delight and ecstasy when Mr. Pickwick, with a brigand on one arm and a troubadour on the other, walked solemnly up the entrance. Never were such shouts heard as those which greeted Mr. Tubman's efforts to fix the sugarloaf hat on his head by way of entering the garden in style. The preparations were on the most delightful scale, fully realizing the prophetic pots and anticipations about the gorgeousness of Eastern fairyland, and at once affording a sufficient contradiction to the malignant statements of the reptile independent. The grounds were more than an acre and a quarter in extent, and they were filled with people. Never was such a blaze of beauty and fashion and literature. There was the young lady who did the poetry in the Eaton-Swell Gazette in the garb of a sultana, kneeling upon the arm of the young gentleman who did the review department and who was appropriately habited in a Field Marshal's uniform, the boots accepted. There were hosts of these geniuses, and any reasonable person would have thought it honor enough to meet them. But more than these, there were half a dozen lions from London, authors, real authors who had written whole books and printed them afterwards. And here you might see them walking about like ordinary men smiling and talking, eye and talking pretty considerable nonsense too, no doubt with the benign intention of rendering themselves intelligible to the common people about them. Moreover, there was a band of music and pasteboard caps for something Ian's singers in the costume of their country, and a dozen hired waiters in the costume of their country, in very dirty costume too. And above all, there was Mrs. Leo Hunter in the character of Minerva, receiving the company and overflowing with pride and gratification at the notion of having called such distinguished individuals together. Mr. Pickwick, ma'am, said a servant, as that gentleman approached the presiding goddess with his hat in his hand and the brigand and troubadour on either arm. What? Where? exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, starting up in an affected rapture of surprise. Here, said Mr. Pickwick, is it possible that I have really the gratification of beholding Mr. Pickwick himself? Ejaculated Mrs. Leo Hunter. No other ma'am, replied Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low, permit me to introduce my friends, Mr. Topman, Mr. Winkle, Mr. Snodgrass, to the authorists of The Expiring Frog. Very few people, but those who have tried it know what a difficult process it is to bow in green velvet smalls and a tight jacket and high-crowned hat. Or in blue satin trunks and white silks or knee cords and top boots that were never made for the wearer and have been fixed upon him without the remotest reference to the comparative dimensions of himself and the suit. Never were such distortions as Mr. Topman's frame underwent in his efforts to appear easy and graceful. Never was such ingenious posturing as his fancy-dressed friends exhibited. Mr. Pickwick, said Mrs. Leo Hunter, I must make you promise not to stir from my side the whole day. There are hundreds of people here that I must positively introduce you to. You are very kind, ma'am, said Mr. Pickwick. In the first place, here are my little girls. I had almost forgotten them, said Minerva, carelessly pointing towards a couple of full-grown young ladies, of whom one might be about 20 and the other a year or two older and who were dressed in very juvenile costumes. Whether to make them look young or their mama younger, Mr. Pickwick does not distinctly inform us. They are very beautiful, said Mr. Pickwick, as the juveniles turned away after being presented. They are very like their mama, sir, said Mr. Pot, majestically. Oh, you naughty man, exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, playfully tapping the editor's arm with her fan. Minerva with a fan? Why now, my dear Mrs. Hunter, said Mr. Pot, who was trumpeter and ordinary at the den. You know that when your picture was in the exhibition of the Royal Academy last year, everybody inquired whether it was intended for you or your youngest daughter, for you were so much alike that there was no telling the difference between you. Well, and if they did, why need you repeat it before strangers, said Mrs. Leo Hunter, bestowing another tap on the slumbering lion of the eaten swilgazette. Count, count, screamed Mrs. Leo Hunter to a well-wiskered individual in a foreign uniform who was passing by. Ah, you want me, said the Count, turning back. I want to introduce two very clever people to each other, said Mrs. Leo Hunter. Mr. Pickwick, I have great pleasure in introducing you to Count Smolltorch. She added in a hurried whisper to Mr. Pickwick, the famous foreigner gathering materials for his great work on England. Hmm, Count Smolltorch, Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick saluted the Count with all the reverence due to so great a man and the Count drew forth a set of tablets. What you say, Mrs. Hunt, inquired the Count, smiling graciously on the gratified Mrs. Leo Hunter. Pig-vig, or big-vig, what you call lawyer, eh? I see, that is it, big-vig. And the Count was proceeding to enter Mr. Pickwick in his tablets as a gentleman of the long robe who derived his name from the profession to which he belonged when Mrs. Leo Hunter interposed. No, no, Count, said the lady, Pickwick. Ah, ah, I see, replied the Count, peak, Christian name, weeks, surname, good, very good, peak weeks, how you do weeks. Quite well, I thank you, replied Mr. Pickwick, with all his usual affability. Have you been long in England? Long, very long time, fortnight, more. Do you stay here long? One week. You will have enough to do, said Mr. Pickwick, smiling, to gather all the materials you want in that time. Eh, they are gathered, said the Count. Indeed, said Mr. Pickwick. They are here, added the Count, tapping his forehead significantly. Large book at home, full of notes, music, picture, science, pottery, politic, all teams. The word politics, sir, said Mr. Pickwick, comprises in itself a difficult study of no inconsiderable magnitude. Ah, said the Count, drawing out the tablets again, very good. Fine words to begin a chapter. Chapter 47, Politics. The word politics surprises by himself. And down went Mr. Pickwick's remarking Count's moral torques tablets, with such variations and additions as the Count's exuberant fancy suggested, or his imperfect knowledge of the language occasioned. Count, said Mrs. Leo Hunter. Mrs. Hunt, replied the Count. This is Mr. Snodgrass, a friend of Mr. Pickwick's and a poet. Stop, exclaimed the Count, bringing out the tablets once more. Head, pottery, chapter, literary friends, named Snodgrass. Very good. Introduced to Snodgrass, great poet, friend of Pickwick's, by Mrs. Hunt, which wrote other sweet poems. What is that name? Fog, perspiring fog. Very good, very good indeed. And the Count put up his tablets. And with sundry bows and acknowledgments walked away, thoroughly satisfied that he had made the most important and valuable additions to his stock of information. Wonderful man, Count's moral torques, said Mrs. Leo Hunter. Sound philosopher, said Mr. Pot. Clear-headed, strong-minded person, added Mr. Snodgrass. A chorus of bystanders took up the shout of Count's moral torques praise, shook their heads sagely and unanimously cried, very. As the enthusiasm in Count's moral torques favor ran very high, his praises might have been sung until the end of the festivities if the four something-y in singers had not ranged themselves in front of a small apple tree, to look picturesque, and commenced singing their national songs, which appeared by no means difficult of execution, in as much as the grand secret seemed to be that three of the something-y in singers should grunt while the fourth howled. This interesting performance, having concluded amidst the loud plaudits of the whole company, a boy forthwith proceeded to entangle himself with the rails of a chair, and to jump over it and crawl under it and fall down with it and do everything but sit upon it, and then to make a cravat of his legs and tie them round his neck, and then to illustrate the ease with which a human being can be made to look like a magnified toad, all which feats yielded high delight and satisfaction to the assembled spectators, after which the voice of Mrs. Pot was heard to chirp faintly forth, something which courtesy interpreted into a song, which was all very classical and strictly in character, because Apollo was himself a composer, and composers can very seldom sing their own music or anybody else's either. This was succeeded by Mrs. Leo Hunter's recitation of her far-famed ode to an expiring frog, which was on chord once, and would have been on chord twice, if the major part of the guests, who thought it was high time to get something to eat, had not said that it was perfectly shameful to take advantage of Mrs. Hunter's good nature. So although Mrs. Leo Hunter professed her perfect willingness to recite the ode again, her kind and considerate friends wouldn't hear of it on any account, and the refreshment room being thrown open, all the people who had ever been there before scrambled in with all possible dispatch. Mrs. Leo Hunter's usual course of proceedings being to issue cards for a hundred and breakfast for fifty, or in other words, to feed only the very particular lions and let the smaller animals take care of themselves. Where is Mr. Pot, said Mrs. Leo Hunter, as she placed the aforesaid lions around her? Here I am, said the editor from the remotest end of the room, far beyond all hope of food unless something was done for him by the hostess. Won't you come up here? Oh, pray don't mind him, said Mrs. Pot, in the most obliging voice. You give yourself a great deal of unnecessary trouble, Mrs. Hunter. You'll do very well there, won't you, dear? Certainly love, replied the unhappy Pot, with a grim smile. Alas for the note, the nervous arm that wielded it with such a gigantic force on public characters was paralyzed beneath the glance of the imperious Mrs. Pot. Mrs. Leo Hunter looked round her in triumph. Count Smolltorch was busily engaged in taking notes of the contents of the dishes. Mr. Topman was doing the honors of the lobster salad to several lionesses with a degree of grace which no brigand ever exhibited before. Mr. Snodgrass, having cut out the young gentleman who cut up the books for the Eaton-Swell Gazette, was engaged in an impassioned argument with the young lady who did the poetry. And Mr. Pickwick was making himself universally agreeable. Nothing seemed wanting to render the select circle complete when Mr. Leo Hunter, whose department on these occasions was to stand about in doorways and talk to the less important people, suddenly called out, my dear, here's Mr. Charles Fitzmartial. Oh, dear, said Mrs. Leo Hunter, how anxiously I have been expecting him. Pray, make room to let Mr. Fitzmartial pass. Tell Mr. Fitzmartial my dear to come up to me directly, to be scolded for coming so late. Coming, my dear ma'am, cried a voice, as quick as I can, crowds of people, full room, hard work, very. Mr. Pickwick's knife and fork fell from his hand. He stared across the table at Mr. Tubman, who had dropped his knife and fork, and was looking as if he were about to sink into the ground without further notice. Ah, cried the voice, as its owner pushed his way among the last five and twenty Turks, officers, Cavaliers, and Charles IIs that remained between him and the table. Regular mangle, baker's patent, not a crease in my coat after all this squeezing, might have got up my linen as I came along. Ha, ha! Not a bad idea, that. Queer thing to have it mangled when it's upon one, though. Trying process, very. With these broken words the young man, dressed as a naval officer, made his way up to the table, and presented to the astonished Pickwickians the identical form and features of Mr. Alfred Jingle. The offender had barely time to take Mrs. Leo Hunter's proffered hand when his eyes encountered the indignant orbs of Mr. Pickwick. Hello, said Jingle. Quite forgot, no directions to Pustillion. Give him at once, back in a minute. The servant or Mr. Hunter will do it in a moment. Mr. Fitzmartial, said Mrs. Leo Hunter. No, no, I'll do it, shan't be long. Back in no time, replied Jingle. With these words he disappeared among the crowd. Will you allow me to ask you, ma'am? Said the excited Mr. Pickwick, rising from his seat. Who that young man is, and where he resides? He is a gentleman of fortune, Mr. Pickwick, said Mrs. Leo Hunter. To whom I very much want to introduce you. The count will be delighted with him. Yes, yes, said Mr. Pickwick hastily, his residence. Is that present at the angel at Burry? At Burry? At Burry St. Edmunds, not many miles from here. But dear me, Mr. Pickwick, you are not going to leave us. Surely, Mr. Pickwick, you cannot think of going so soon. But long before Mrs. Leo Hunter had finished speaking, Mr. Pickwick had plunged through the throng and reached the garden, whether he was shortly afterwards joined by Mr. Tuttman, who had followed his friend closely. It's of no use, said Mr. Tuttman, he is gone. I know it, said Mr. Pickwick, and I will follow him. Follow him? Where? inquired Mr. Tuttman. To the angel at Burry, replied Mr. Pickwick, speaking very quickly. How do we know whom he is deceiving there? He deceived a worthy man once, and we were the innocent cause. He shall not do it again if I can help it. I'll expose him. Sam, where's my servant? Here you are, sir, said Mr. Weller, emerging from a sequestered spot, where he had been engaged in discussing a bottle of Madeira, which he had abstracted from the breakfast table an hour or two before. Here's your servant, sir, proud of the title as the living skeleton said, then they showed him. Follow me instantly, said Mr. Pickwick. Tuttman, if I stay at Burry, you can join me there when I write. Till then, goodbye. Remonstrances were useless. Mr. Pickwick was roused, and his mind was made up. Mr. Tuttman returned to his companions, and in another hour had drowned all present recollections of Mr. Alfred Jingle or Mr. Charles Fitzmartial in an exhilarating quadril and a bottle of champagne. By that time, Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller perched on the outside of a stagecoach, where every succeeding minute placing a less and less distance between themselves and the good old town of Burry's St. Edmunds. End of Chapter 15. Chapter 16 of The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Deborah Lynn. The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens. Chapter 16. Too full of adventure to be briefly described. There is no month in the whole year in which nature wears a more beautiful appearance than in the month of August. Spring has many beauties, and May is a fresh and blooming month. But the charms of this time of year are enhanced by their contrast with the winter season. August has no such advantage. It comes when we remember nothing but clear skies, green fields, and sweet-smelling flowers. When the recollection of snow and ice and bleak winds has faded from our minds as completely as they have disappeared from the earth, and yet what a pleasant time it is. Orchards and cornfields ring with the hum of labor. Trees bend beneath the thick clusters of rich fruit which bow their branches to the ground. And the corn, piled in graceful sheaves, or waving in every light breath that sweeps above it, as if it wooed the sickle, tinges the landscape with a golden hue. A mellow softness appears to hang over the whole earth. The influence of the season seems to extend itself to the very wagon, whose slow motion across the well-reaped field is perceptible only to the eye, but strikes with no harsh sound upon the ear. As the coach rolls swiftly past the fields and orchards which skirt the road, groups of women and children piling the fruit in sieves or gathering the scattered ears of corn, pause for an instant from their labor, and shading the sunburned face with a still browner hand gaze upon the passengers with curious eyes. While some stout urchin, too small to work but too mischievous to be left at home, scrambles over the side of the basket in which he has been deposited for security and kicks and screams with delight. The reaper stops in his work and stands with folded arms, looking at the vehicle as it whirls past, and the rough cart horses bestow a sleepy glance upon the smart coach team, which says as plainly as a horse's glance can, it's all very fine to look at, but slow going over a heavy field is better than warm work like that upon a dusty road, after all. You cast a look behind you as you turn a corner of the road. The women and children have resumed their labor. The reaper once more stoopes to his work. The cart horses have moved on in all are again in motion. The influence of a scene like this was not lost upon the well-regulated mind of Mr. Pickwick. Intent upon the resolution he had formed of exposing the real character of the nefarious jingle in any quarter in which he might be pursuing his fraudulent designs. He sat at first, taciturn and contemplative, brooding over the means by which his purpose could be best attained. By degrees his attention grew more and more attracted by the objects around him, and at last he derived as much enjoyment from the ride as if it had been undertaken for the pleasantest reason in the world. Delightful prospect, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, beats the chimney pots, sir, replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat. I suppose you have hardly seen anything but chimney pots and bricks and mortar all your life, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, smiling. I warrant always a boot, sir, said Mr. Weller, with a shake of the head. I was a wagoner's boy once. When was that? inquired Mr. Pickwick. When I was first pitched neck and crop into the world to play at Leap Frog with its Troubles, replied Sam. I was a carrier's boy at a startin', then a wagoner's, then a helper, then a boot's. Now I'm a gentleman's servant. I shall be a gentleman myself one of these days, perhaps with a pipe in my mouth and a summer house in the back garden. Who knows? I shouldn't be surprised for one. You are quite a philosopher, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick. It runs in the family, I believe, sir, replied Mr. Weller. My father's very much in that line now. If my mother-in-law blows him up, he whistles. She flies in a passion and breaks his pipe, he steps out and gets another. Then she screams very loud and falls into sterics and he smokes very comfortably till she comes to again. That's philosophy, sir, ain't it? A very good substitute for it at all events, replied Mr. Pickwick, laughing. It must have been a great service to you in the course of your rambling life, Sam. Service, sir, exclaimed Sam. You may say that. After I run away from the carrier and before I took up with the wagoner, I had unfurnished lodgings for a fortnight. Unfurnished lodgings, said Mr. Pickwick. Yes, the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge, fine sleeping place, but then 10 minutes walk of all the public offices, only if there's any objection to it, it is that the situation's rather too airy. I see some queer sights there. I suppose you did, said Mr. Pickwick, with an air of considerable interest. Sights, sir, resumed Mr. Weller, as it penetrate your benevolent heart and come out on the other side. You don't see the regular wagrons there. Trust them, they know's better than that. Young vagers, male and female, as hasn't made a rise in their profession, takes up their quarters there sometimes, but it's generally the worn out, starving, houseless creeders as roll themselves in the dark corners of them lonesome places. Poor creeders as ain't up to the two-penny rope. And pray, Sam, what is the two-penny rope, inquired Mr. Pickwick. The two-penny rope, sir, replied Mr. Weller, is just a cheap lodging house where the bed's is two pence a night. What do they call a bed a rope for, said Mr. Pickwick. Bless your innocence, sir, that ain't it, replied Sam. But the lady and gentleman as keeps the hotel first begun business, they used to make the beds on the floor, but this wouldn't do it no price, because instead of taking a moderate two-penner with a sleep, the lodgers used to lie there half the day. So now they has two ropes, about six foot apart, and three from the floor, which goes right down the room, and the beds are made of slips of coarse sacking stretched across them. Well, said Mr. Pickwick, well, said Mr. Weller, the advantage of the plan's obvious. At six o'clock every morning they let's go the ropes at one end and downfalls the lodgers. Consequences, that being thoroughly waked, they get up very quietly and walk away. Beg your pardons, sir, said Sam, suddenly breaking off in his loquacious discourse. Is this Burry St. Edmunds? It is, replied Mr. Pickwick. The coach rattled through the well-paved streets of a handsome little town of thriving and cleanly appearance, and stopped before a large inn situated in a wide-open street nearly facing the old Abbey. And this, said Mr. Pickwick, looking up, is the angel. We alight here, Sam, but some caution is necessary. Order a private room and do not mention my name, you understand? Right as a trivet, sir, replied Mr. Weller, with a wink of intelligence, and having dragged Mr. Pickwick's portmanteau from the hind boot into which it had been hastily thrown when they joined the coach at Eaton's Will, Mr. Weller disappeared on his errand. A private room was speedily engaged, and into it Mr. Pickwick was ushered without delay. Now, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, the first thing to be done is to order dinner, sir, interposed Mr. Weller. It's very late, sir. Ah, so it is, said Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch. You are right, Sam. And if I mighted wise, sir, added Mr. Weller, I'd just have a good night's rest, artowards, and not begin inquiring out of this here deep until the morning. There is nothing so refreshing as sleep, sir, as the servant girl said afore she drank the egg cup full of laudanum. I think you are right, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, but I must first ascertain that he is in the house and not likely to go away. Leave that to me, sir, said Sam. Let me order you a snug little dinner and make my inquiries below while it's a getting ready. I could worm every secret out of the boots his heart in five minutes, sir. Do so, said Mr. Pickwick, and Mr. Weller at once retired. In half an hour Mr. Pickwick was seated at a very satisfactory dinner, and in three quarters Mr. Weller returned with the intelligence that Mr. Charles Fitzmartial had ordered his private room to be retained for him until further notice. He was going to spend the evening at some private house in the neighborhood, had ordered the boots to sit up until his return, and had taken his servant with him. Now, sir, argued Mr. Weller when he had concluded his report. If I can get a talk with this here servant in the morning, he'll tell me all his master's concerns. How do you know that, in your post, Mr. Pickwick? Bless your heart, sir, servants always do, replied Mr. Weller. Oh, I forgot that, said Mr. Pickwick. Then you can arrange what's best to be done, sir, and we can act accordingly. As it appeared that this was the best arrangement that could be made, it was finally agreed upon. Mr. Weller, by his master's permission, retired to spend the evening in his own way, and was shortly afterwards elected by the unanimous voice of the assembled company into the taproom chair, in which honorable post he acquitted himself so much to the satisfaction of the gentlemen frequenters that their roars of laughter and approbation penetrated to Mr. Pickwick's bedroom and shortened the term of his natural rest by at least three hours. Early on the ensuing morning, Mr. Weller was dispelling all the feverish remains of the previous evening's conviviality through the instrumentality of a half-penny shower bath, having induced a young gentleman attached to the stable department by the offer of that coin to pump over his head and face until he was perfectly restored. When he was attracted by the appearance of a young fellow in mulberry-colored livery, who was sitting on a bench in the yard, reading what appeared to be a hymn-book with an air of deep abstraction, but who occasionally stole a glance at the individual under the pump as if he took some interest in his proceedings, nevertheless. You're a rumun to look at, you are, thought Mr. Weller, the first time his eyes encountered the glance of the stranger in the mulberry suit, who had a large, sallow, ugly face, very sunken eyes, and a gigantic head from which depended a quantity of length black hair. You're a rumun, thought Mr. Weller, and thinking this he went on washing himself and thought no more about him. Still the man kept glancing from his hymn-book to Sam and from Sam to his hymn-book as if he wanted to open a conversation. So at last Sam, by way of giving him an opportunity, said with a familiar nod, How are you, Governor? I am happy to say I am pretty well, sir, said the man, speaking with great deliberation and closing the book. I hope you are the same, sir. Why, if I felt less like a walking brandy bottle, I shouldn't be quite so staggery this morning, replied Sam. Are you stopping in this house, Olden? The mulberry man replied in the affirmative. How was it you want one of us last night, inquired Sam, scrubbing his face with a towel? You seem one of the jolly sort. Looks as convivial as a live trout in a lime basket, added Mr. Weller in an undertone. I was out last night with my master, replied the stranger. What's his name, inquired Mr. Weller, coloring up very red with sudden excitement and the friction of the towel combined. Fitzmartial, said the mulberry man. Give us your hand, said Mr. Weller advancing. I should like to know you. I like your appearance, old fellow. Well, that is very strange, said the mulberry man with great simplicity of manner. I like yours so much that I wanted to speak to you from the very first moment I saw you under the pomp. Did you, though? Upon my word. Now, isn't that curious? Wary Singler, said Sam, inwardly congratulating himself upon the softness of the stranger. What's your name, my patriarch? Job. And a very good name it is, only one I know that ain't got a nickname to it. What's the other name? Trotter, said the stranger. What is yours? Sam bore in mind his master's caution and replied, my name's Walker. My master's name's Wilkins. Will you take a drop of something this morning, Mr. Trotter? Mr. Trotter acquiesced in this agreeable proposal and, having deposited his book in his coat pocket, accompanied Mr. Weller to the tap where they were soon occupied in discussing an exhilarating compound formed by mixing together in a pewter vessel certain quantities of British Hollins and the fragrant essence of the clove. And what sort of a place have you got? Sam inquired Sam as he filled his companion's glass for the second time. Bad, said Job, smacking his lips, very bad. You don't mean that, said Sam. I do indeed. Worse than that, my master's going to be married. No. Yes, and worse than that, too, he's going to run away with an immense, rich heiress from boarding school. What a dragon, said Sam, refilling his companion's glass. It's some boarding school in this town, I suppose, ain't it? Now, although this question was put in the most careless tone imaginable, Mr. Job Trotter plainly showed by gestures that he perceived his new friend's anxiety to draw forth an answer to it. He emptied his glass, looked mysteriously at his companion, winked both of his small eyes one after the other, and finally made a motion with his arm as if he were working an imaginary pump handle, thereby intimating that he, Mr. Trotter, considered himself as undergoing the process of being pumped by Mr. Samuel Weller. No, no, said Mr. Trotter, in conclusion, that's not to be told to everybody. That is a secret, a great secret, Mr. Walker. As the mulberry man said this, he turned his glass upside down, by way of reminding his companion that he had nothing left wherewith the slake is thirst. Sam observed the hint, and feeling the delicate manner in which it was conveyed, ordered the pewter vessel to be refilled, where at the small eyes of the mulberry man glistened. And so it's a secret, said Sam. I should rather suspect it was, said the mulberry man, sipping his liquor with a complacent face. I suppose your master's wary rich, said Sam. Mr. Trotter smiled, and holding his glass in his left hand gave four distinct slaps on the pockets of his mulberry indescribables with his right as if to intimate that his master might have done the same without alarming anybody much by the chinking of coin. Ah, said Sam, that's the game, is it? The mulberry man nodded significantly. Well, and don't you think, old feller, remonstrated Mr. Weller, that if you let your master take in this here young lady, you're a precious rascal? I know that, said Job Trotter, turning upon his companion accountants of deep contrition and groaning slightly. I know that, and that's what it is that prays upon my mind. But what am I to do? said Sam, to waltz to the Mrs. and give up your master. Who would believe me? replied Job Trotter. The young lady's considered the very picture of innocence and discretion. She denied, and so would my master. Who'd believe me? I should lose my place and get indicted for a conspiracy or some such thing. That's all I should take by my motion. There's something in that, said Sam, ruminating. There's something in that. If I knew any respectable gentleman who would take the matter up, continued Mr. Trotter, I might have some hope of preventing the elopement. But there's the same difficulty, Mr. Walker, just the same. I know no gentleman in this strange place and tend to want if I did whether he would believe my story. Come this way, said Sam, suddenly jumping up and grasping the mulberry man by the arm. My mash is the man you want, I see. And after a slight resistance on the part of Job Trotter, Sam led his newly found friend to the apartment of Mr. Pickwick, to whom he presented him, together with a brief summary of the dialogue we have just repeated. I am very sorry to betray my master, sir, said Job Trotter, applying to his eyes a pink checked pocket handkerchief, about six inches square. The feeling does you a great deal of honor, replied Mr. Pickwick. But it is your duty, nevertheless. I know it is my duty, sir, replied Job, with great emotion. We should all try to discharge our duty, sir, and I humbly endeavour to discharge mine, sir. But it is a hard trial to betray a master, sir, whose clothes you wear, and whose bread you eat, even though he is a scoundrel, sir. You are a very good fellow, said Mr. Pickwick, much affected, an honest fellow. Come, come, interposed Sam, who had witnessed Mr. Trotter's tears with considerable impatience. Blow this dear water-cart business, it won't do no good, this won't. Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, reproachfully. I am sorry to find that you have so little respect for this young man's feelings. His feelings is all very well, sir, replied Mr. Weller. And as they're so very fine, and it's a pity he should lose them, I think he'd better keep them in his own bosom than let them evaporate in hot water, especially as they do no good. Tears never yet wound up o'clock, or worked a steam engine. The next time you go out to a smoking party, young fellow, fill your pipe with that air reflection, and for the present just put that bit of pink gingham into your pocket. Taint so handsome that you need keep waving it about as if he was a tightrope dancer. My man is in the right, said Mr. Pickwick, a costing job, although his motive expressing his opinion is somewhat homely and occasionally incomprehensible. He is, sir, very right, said Mr. Trotter, and I will give way no longer. Very well, said Mr. Pickwick. Now, where is this boarding school? It is a large, old, red brick house just outside the town, sir, replied Job Trotter. And when, said Mr. Pickwick, when is this villainous design to be carried into execution? When is this elopement to take place? Tonight, sir, replied Job. Tonight, exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. This very night, sir, replied Job Trotter. That is what alarms me so much. Instant measures must be taken, said Mr. Pickwick. I will see the lady who keeps the establishment immediately. I beg your pardon, sir, said Job, but that course of proceeding will never do. Why not? inquired Mr. Pickwick. My master, sir, is a very artful man. I know he is, said Mr. Pickwick. And he so wound himself round the old lady's heart, sir, resumed Job, that she would believe nothing to his prejudice if you went down on your bare knees and swore it, especially as you have no proof but the word of a servant, who, for anything she knows, and my master would be sure to say so, was discharged for some fault and does this in revenge. What had better be done, then, said Mr. Pickwick? Nothing but taking him in the very act of eloping will convince the old lady, sir, replied Job. All them old cats will run their heads again, milestones, observed Mr. Weller in a parenthesis. But this taking him in the very act of elopement would be a very difficult thing to accomplish, I fear, said Mr. Pickwick. I don't know, sir, said Mr. Trotter after a few moments' reflection. I think it might be very easily done. How, was Mr. Pickwick's inquiry? Why, replied Mr. Trotter, my master and I, being in the confidence of the two servants, will be secreted in the kitchen at 10 o'clock. When the family have retired to rest, we shall come out of the kitchen and the young lady out of her bedroom. A post-chase will be waiting in a way we go. Well, said Mr. Pickwick. Well, sir, I have been thinking that if you were in waiting in the garden behind, alone. Alone, said Mr. Pickwick, why alone? I thought it very natural, replied Job, that the old lady wouldn't like such an unpleasant discovery to be made before more persons than can possibly be helped. The young lady too, sir, consider her feelings. You are very right, said Mr. Pickwick. The consideration evinces your delicacy of feeling. Go on, you are very right. Well, sir, I have been thinking that if you were waiting in the back garden alone and I was to let you in at the door which opens into it from the end of the passage at exactly half past 11 o'clock, you would be just in the very moment of time to assist me in frustrating the designs of this bad man by whom I have been, unfortunately, ensnared. Here, Mr. Trotter, sighed deeply. Don't distress yourself on that account, said Mr. Pickwick. If he had one grain of the delicacy of feeling which distinguishes you humble as your station is, I should have some hopes of him. Job Trotter bowed low and in spite of Mr. Weller's previous remonstrances, the tears again rose to his eyes. I never see such a feller, said Sam. Blessed if I don't think he's got a mane in his head as has always turned on. Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, with great severity, hold your tongue. Very well, sir, replied Mr. Weller. I don't like this plan, said Mr. Pickwick after deep meditation. Why can't I communicate with the young lady's friends? Because they live 100 miles from here, sir, responded Job Trotter. That's a clincher, said Mr. Weller aside. Then this garden, resumed Mr. Pickwick, how am I to get into it? The wall is very low, sir, and your servant will give you a leg up. My servant will give me a leg up, repeated Mr. Pickwick mechanically. You will be sure to be near this door that you speak of. You cannot mistake it, sir. It's the only one that opens into the garden. Tap at it when you hear the clock strike, and I will open it instantly. I don't like the plan, said Mr. Pickwick, but as I see no other, and as the happiness of this young lady's whole life is at stake, I adopt it. I shall be sure to be there. Thus for the second time, did Mr. Pickwick's innate good feeling involve him in an enterprise from which he would most willingly have stood aloof. What is the name of the house, inquired Mr. Pickwick? Westgate House, sir. You turn a little to the right when you get to the end of the town. It stands by itself some little distance off the high road, with the name on a brass plate on the gate. I know it, said Mr. Pickwick. I observed it once before when I was in this town. You may depend upon me. Mr. Trotter made another bow and turned to depart when Mr. Pickwick thrust a guinea into his hand. You're a fine fellow, said Mr. Pickwick, and I admire your goodness of heart. No thanks. Remember, 11 o'clock. There is no fear of my forgetting it, sir, replied Job Trotter. With these words, he left the room followed by Sam. I say, said the latter, not a bad notion that air crying. I'd cry like a rainwater spouting a shower on such good terms. How do you do it? It comes from the heart, Mr. Walker, replied Job solemnly. Good morning, sir. You're a soft customer you are. We've got it all out of you anyhow, thought Mr. Weller as Job walked away. We cannot state the precise nature of the thoughts which passed through Mr. Trotter's mind because we don't know what they were. The day of war on, evening came, and at a little before 10 o'clock, Sam Weller reported that Mr. Jingle and Job had gone out together, that their luggage was packed up, and that they had ordered a chaise. The plot was evidently in execution as Mr. Trotter had foretold. Half past 10 o'clock arrived, and it was time for Mr. Pickwick to issue forth on his delicate errand. Resisting Sam's tender of his great coat, in order that he might have no encumbrance in scaling the wall, he sat forth, followed by his attendant. There was a bright moon, but it was behind the clouds. It was a fine, dry night, but it was most uncommonly dark. Paths, hedges, fields, houses, and trees were enveloped in one deep shade. The atmosphere was hot and sultry, the summer lightning quivered faintly on the verge of the horizon, and was the only sight that varied the dull gloom in which everything was wrapped. Sound there was none, except the distant barking of some restless house dog. They found the house, read the brass plate, walked round the wall, and stopped at that portion of it which divided them from the bottom of the garden. You will return to the inn, Sam, when you have assisted me over, said Mr. Pickwick. Very well, sir. And you will sit up till I return. Certainly, sir. Take hold of my leg, and when I say over, raise me gently. All right, sir. Having settled these preliminaries, Mr. Pickwick grasped the top of the wall and gave the word over, which was literally obeyed, whether his body partook in some degree of the elasticity of his mind, or whether Mr. Weller's notions of a gentle push were of a somewhat rougher description than Mr. Pickwick's. The immediate effect of his assistance was to jerk that immortal gentleman completely over the wall onto the bed beneath, where, after crushing three gooseberry bushes and a rose tree, he finally alighted at full length. You hand hurt yourself, I hope, sir, said Sam, in a loud whisper, as soon as he had recovered from the surprise, consequent upon the mysterious disappearance of his master. I have not hurt myself, Sam, certainly, replied Mr. Pickwick from the other side of the wall, but I rather think that you have hurt me. I hope not, sir, said Sam. Never mind, said Mr. Pickwick, rising. It's nothing but a few scratches. Go away or we shall be overheard. Goodbye, sir, goodbye. With stealthy steps, Sam Weller departed, leaving Mr. Pickwick alone in the garden. Lights occasionally appeared in the different windows of the house, or glanced from the staircases as if the inmates were retiring to rest. Not caring to go too near the door until the appointed time, Mr. Pickwick crouched into an angle of the wall and awaited its arrival. It was a situation which might well have depressed the spirits of many a man. Mr. Pickwick, however, felt neither depression nor misgiving. He knew that his purpose was in the main a good one, and he placed implicit reliance on the high-minded Job. It was dull, certainly, not to say dreary, but a contemplative man can always employ himself in meditation. Mr. Pickwick had meditated himself into a dose when he was roused by the chimes of the neighboring church ringing out the hour, half past eleven. That's the time, thought Mr. Pickwick, getting cautiously on his feet. He looked up at the house. The lights had disappeared and the shutters were closed, all in bed, no doubt. He walked on tiptoe to the door and gave a gentle tap. Two or three minutes passing without any reply, he gave another tap, rather louder, and then another, rather louder than that. At length the sound of feet was audible upon the stairs, and then the light of a candle shone through the keyhole of the door. There was a good deal of un-chaining and un-bolting, and the door was slowly opened. Now the door opened outwards, and as the door opened wider and wider, Mr. Pickwick receded behind it more and more. What was his astonishment when he just peeped out by way of caution to see that the person who had opened it was not Job Trotter, but a servant girl with a candle in her hand. Mr. Pickwick drew in his head again, with the swiftness displayed by that admirable, melodramatic performer punch, when he lies in wait for the flat-headed comedian with a tin box of music. It must have been the cat, Sarah, said the girl, addressing herself to someone in the house. Puss, puss, puss, tit, tit, tit. But no animal being decoyed by these blandishments. The girl slowly closed the door and refascined it, leaving Mr. Pickwick drawn up straight against the wall. This is very curious, thought Mr. Pickwick. They are sitting up beyond their usual hour, I suppose, extremely unfortunate that they should have chosen this night of all others for such a purpose, exceedingly. And with these thoughts Mr. Pickwick cautiously retired to the angle of the wall in which he had been before a sconce, waiting until such time as he might deem it safe to repeat the signal. He had not been here five minutes when a vivid flash of lightning was followed by a loud peel of thunder that crashed and rolled away in the distance with a terrific noise. Then came another flash of lightning brighter than the other and a second peel of thunder louder than the first and then down came the rain with a force and fury that swept everything before it. Mr. Pickwick was perfectly aware that a tree is a very dangerous neighbor in a thunderstorm. He had a tree on his right, a tree on his left, a third before him and a fourth behind. If he remained where he was he might fall the victim of an accident. If he showed himself in the center of the garden he might be consigned to a constable. Once or twice he tried to scale the wall but having no other legs this time than those with which nature had furnished him the only effect of his struggles was to inflict a variety of very unpleasant gratings on his knees and shins and to throw him into a state of the most profuse perspiration. What a dreadful situation. Said Mr. Pickwick, pausing to wipe his brow after this exercise. He looked up at the house, all was dark. They must be going to bed now. He would try the signal again. He walked on tiptoe across the moist gravel and tapped at the door. He held his breath and listened at the keyhole. No reply, very odd. Another knock, he listened again. There was a low whispering inside and then a voice cried, who's there? That's not Job, thought Mr. Pickwick, hastily drawing himself straight up against the wall again. It's a woman. He had scarcely had time to form this conclusion when a window above stairs was thrown up and three or four female voices repeated the query, who's there? Mr. Pickwick dared not move hand or foot. It was clear that the whole establishment was roused. He made up his mind to remain where he was until the alarm had subsided and then by a supernatural effort to get over the wall or perish in the attempt. Like all Mr. Pickwick's determinations, this was the best that could be made under the circumstances. But unfortunately it was founded upon the assumption that they would not venture to open the door again. What was his discomforture when he heard the chain and bolts withdrawn and saw the door slowly opening wider and wider? He retreated into the corner step by step, but do what he would. The interposition of his own person prevented its being open to its utmost width. Who's there? Screamed a numerous chorus of treble voices from the staircase inside, consisting of the spinster lady of the establishment, three teachers, five female servants and 30 boarders, all half-dressed and in a forest of curlpapers. Of course Mr. Pickwick didn't say who was there and then the burden of the chorus changed into, Lord, I am so frightened. Cook, said the lady Abbas, who took care to be on the top stair, the very last of the group. Cook, why don't you go a little way into the garden? Please, ma'am, I don't like, responded the cook. Lord, what a stupid thing that cook is, said the 30 boarders. Cook, said the lady Abbas with great dignity, don't answer me, if you please. I insist upon your looking into the garden immediately. Here the cook began to cry and the housemaid said it was a shame for which partisanship she received amongst mourning on the spot. Do you hear, cook, said the lady Abbas, stamping her foot impatiently. Don't you hear your misses, cook, said the three teachers. What an impudent thing that cook is, said the 30 boarders. The unfortunate cook, thus strongly urged, advanced a step or two and holding her candle just where it prevented her from seeing it all, declared there was nothing there and it must have been the wind. The door was just going to be closed in consequence when an inquisitive boarder, who had been peeping between the hinges, set up a fearful screaming which called back the cook and housemaid and all the more adventurous in no time. What is the matter with Miss Smithers, said the lady Abbas, as the aforesaid Miss Smithers proceeded to go into hysterics of four young lady power. Lord Miss Smithers, dear, said the other nine and 20 boarders. Oh, the man, the man behind the door, screamed Miss Smithers. The lady Abbas, no sooner, heard this appalling cry than she retreated to her own bedroom, double-locked the door and fainted away comfortably. The boarders and the teachers and the servants fell back upon the stairs and upon each other and never was such a screaming and fainting and struggling beheld. In the midst of the tumult, Mr. Pickwick emerged from his concealment and presented himself amongst them. Ladies, dear ladies, said Mr. Pickwick. Oh, he says we're dear, cried the oldest and ugliest teacher. Oh, the wretch! Ladies, roared Mr. Pickwick, rendered desperate by the danger of his situation. Hear me, I am no robber. I want the lady of the house. Oh, what a ferocious monster screamed another teacher. He wants Miss Tomkins. Here, there was a general scream. Ring the alarm bell, somebody cried a dozen voices. Don't, don't, shouted Mr. Pickwick. Look at me, do I look like a robber? My dear ladies, you may bind me hand and leg or lock me up in a closet if you like. Only hear what I have got to say, only hear me. How did you come in our garden? faltered the housemaid. Call the lady of the house and I'll tell her everything, said Mr. Pickwick, exerting his lungs to the utmost pitch. Call her, only be quiet and call her and you shall hear everything. It might have been Mr. Pickwick's appearance or it might have been his manner or it might have been the temptation, irresistible to a female mind of hearing something at present enveloped in mystery, that reduced the more reasonable portion of the establishment, some four individuals, to a state of comparative quiet. By them it was proposed as a testimony to Pickwick's sincerity that he should immediately submit to personal restraint and that gentleman having consented to hold a conference with Miss Tomkins from the interior of a closet in which the day-borders hung their bonnets and sandwich bags, he at once stepped into it of his own accord and was securely locked in. This revived the others and Miss Tomkins, having been brought to and brought down, the conference began. What did you do in my garden, man? said Miss Tomkins in a faint voice. I came to warn you that one of your young ladies was going to elope tonight, replied Mr. Pickwick from the interior of the closet. Elope exclaimed Miss Tomkins, the three teachers, the thirty-borders and the five servants. Who with? Your friend, Mr. Charles Fitzmartial. My friend, I don't know any such person. Well, Mr. Jingle then, I never heard the name in my life. Then I have been deceived and eluded, said Mr. Pickwick. I have been the victim of a conspiracy, a foul and base conspiracy. Send to the angel, my dear ma'am, if you don't believe me. Send to the angel for Mr. Pickwick's manservant. I implore you, ma'am. He must be respectable, he keeps a manservant, said Miss Tomkins to the writing and ciphering governess. It's my opinion, Miss Tomkins, said the writing and ciphering governess, that his manservant keeps him. I think he's a madman, Miss Tomkins, and the others his keeper. I think you are very right, Miss Gwynn, responded Miss Tomkins, let two of the servants repair to the angel and let the others remain here to protect us. So two of the servants were dispatched to the angel in search of Mr. Samuel Weller, and the remaining three stopped behind to protect Miss Tomkins and the three teachers in the thirty-borders. And Mr. Pickwick sat down in the closet beneath a grove of sandwich bags and awaited the return of the messengers with all the philosophy and fortitude he could summon to his aid. An hour and a half elapsed before they came back, and when they did come Mr. Pickwick recognized, in addition to the voice of Mr. Samuel Weller, two other voices, the tones of which struck familiarly on his ear, but whose they were he could not for the life of him call to mind. A very brief conversation ensued. The door was unlocked. Mr. Pickwick stepped out of the closet and found himself in the presence of the whole establishment of Westgate House, Mr. Samuel Weller and old Wardle and his destined son-in-law, Mr. Trundle. My dear friend, said Mr. Pickwick, running forward and grasping Wardle's hand, my dear friend, pray for heaven's sake, explain to this lady the unfortunate and dreadful situation in which I am placed. You must have heard it from my servant. Say at all events, my dear fellow, that I am neither a robber nor a madman. I have said so, my dear friend. I have said so already, replied Mr. Wardle, shaking the right hand of his friend while Mr. Trundle shook the left. And whoever says or has said he is, interposed Mr. Weller, stepping forward, says that which is not the truth, but so far from it, on the contrary, quite the reverse. And if there's any number of men on these here premises, as has said so, I shall be very happy to give them all a very convincing proof of their being mistaken in this here wary room. If these wary respectable ladies will have the goodness to retire and order them up one at a time. Having delivered this defiance with great volubility, Mr. Weller struck his open palm emphatically with his clenched fist and winked pleasantly on Miss Tompkins, the intensity of whose horror at his supposing it within the bounds of possibility that there could be any men on the premises of Westgate House establishment for young ladies, it is impossible to describe. Mr. Pickwick's explanation, having already been partially made, was soon concluded, but neither in the course of his walk home with his friends nor afterwards when seated before a blazing fire at the supper he so much needed could a single observation be drawn from him. He seemed bewildered and amazed. Once and only once he turned round to Mr. Wardle and said, how did you come here? Trundle and I came down here for some good shooting on the first, replied Wardle, we arrived to-night and were astonished to hear from your servant that you were here too. But I am glad you are, said the old fellow, slapping him on the back, I am glad you are. We shall have a jovial party on the first and we'll give Winkle another chance, say, old boy. Mr. Pickwick made no reply. He did not even ask after his friends at Dingley Dell and shortly afterwards retired for the night, desiring Sam to fetch his candle when he rung. The bell did ring in due course and Mr. Weller presented himself. Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, looking out from under the bed clothes. Sir, said Mr. Weller. Mr. Pickwick paused and Mr. Weller snuffed the candle. Sam, said Mr. Pickwick again, as if with a desperate effort. Sir, said Mr. Weller once more. Where is that trotter? Job, sir? Yes. Gone, sir. With his master, I suppose. A friend or master or whatever he is. He's gone with him, replied Mr. Weller. There's a pair in him, sir. Jingle suspected my design and set that fellow on you with this story, I suppose, said Mr. Pickwick, half choking. Just that, sir, replied Mr. Weller. It was all false, of course. All, sir, replied Mr. Weller. Regular due, sir, artful dodge. I don't think he'll escape us quite easily the next time, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick. Don't think you will, sir. Whenever I meet that jingle again, wherever it is, said Mr. Pickwick, raising himself in bed and indenting his pillow with a tremendous blow, I'll inflict personal chastisement on him in addition to the exposure he so richly merits. I will or my name is not Pickwick. And whenever I catch his hold of that there, melancholy chap with the black hair, said Sam, if I don't bring some real water into his eyes for once in a way, my name ain't Weller. Good night, sir. End of chapter 16.