 Chapter 17 of the Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens, showing that an attack of rheumatism in some cases acts as a quickener to inventive genius. The Constitution of Mr. Pickwick, though able to sustain a very considerable amount of exertion and fatigue, was not proof against such a combination of attacks as he had undergone on the memorable night recorded in the last chapter. The process of being washed in the night air and rough-dried in a closet is as dangerous as it is peculiar. Mr. Pickwick was laid up with an attack of rheumatism. But although the bodily powers of the great man were thus impaired, his mental energies retained their pristine vigor. His spirits were elastic, his good humor was restored. Even the vexation consequent upon his recent adventure had vanished from his mind, and he could join in the hearty laughter which any allusion to it excited in Mr. Wardle without anger and without embarrassment. Nay, more! During the two days Mr. Pickwick was confined to bed, Sam was his constant attendant. On the first he endeavored to amuse his master by anecdote and conversation. On the second Mr. Pickwick demanded his writing desk and pen and ink, and was deeply engaged during the whole day. On the third, being able to sit up in his bed-chamber, he dispatched his valet with the message to Mr. Wardle and Mr. Trundle, intimating that if they would take their wine there that evening they would greatly oblige him. The invitation was most willingly accepted, and when they were seated over their wine Mr. Pickwick with sundry blushes produced the following little tale as having been edited by himself during his recent indisposition from his notes of Mr. Weller's unsophisticated recital, The Parish Clerk, A Tale of True Love. Once upon a time in a very small country town at a considerable distance from London there lived a little man named Nathaniel Pipkin who was the Parish Clerk of the little town and lived in a little house in the little high street within ten minutes walk from the little church, and who was to be found every day from nine till four teaching a little learning to the little boys. Nathaniel Pipkin was a harmless, inoffensive, good-natured being with a turned-up nose and rather turned-in legs, a cast in his eye and a halt in his gate, and he divided his time between the church and his school, barely believing that there existed not on the face of the earth so clever a man as to curate, so imposing an apartment as the vestry-room or so well-ordered a seminary as his own. Once and only once in his life Nathaniel Pipkin had seen a bishop, a real bishop, with his arms in lawn sleeves and his head in a wig. He had seen him walk and heard him talk at a conformation, on which, momentous occasion, Nathaniel Pipkin was so overcome with reverence and awe when the aforesaid bishop laid his hand on his head that he fainted right clean away and was born out of the church in the arms of the beetle. This was a great event, a tremendous era in Nathaniel Pipkin's life, and it was the only one that had ever occurred to ruffle the smooth current of his quiet existence. When happening one fine afternoon in a fit of mental abstraction to raise his eyes from the slate on which he was devising some tremendous problem in compound addition for an offending urchin to solve, they suddenly rested on the blooming countenance of Maria Lobbs, the only daughter of old Lobbs, the great saddler, over the way. Now the eyes of Mr. Pipkin had rested on the pretty face of Maria Lobbs many a time and often before, at church and elsewhere. But the eyes of Maria Lobbs had never looked so bright. The cheeks of Maria Lobbs had never looked so ruddy as upon this particular occasion. No wonder, then, that Nathaniel Pipkin was unable to take his eyes from the countenance of Miss Lobbs. No wonder that Miss Lobbs, finding herself stared at by a young man, withdrew her head from the window out of which she had been peeping, and shut the casement and pulled down the blind. No wonder that Nathaniel Pipkin, immediately thereafter, fell upon the young urchin who had previously offended and cuffed and knocked him about to his heart's content. All this was very natural, and there's nothing at all to wonder at about it. It is matter of wonder, though, that any one of Mr. Nathaniel Pipkin's retiring disposition, nervous temperament, and most particularly diminutive income, should from this day forth have dared to aspire to the hand and heart of the only daughter of the fiery Old Lobbs. Of Old Lobbs the great saddler who could have bought up the whole village at one stroke of his pen and never felt the outlay. Old Lobbs, who was well known to have heaps of money, invested in the bank at the nearest market town, who was reported to have countless and inexhaustible treasures hoarded up in the little iron safe with a big keyhole over the chimney piece in the back parlor, and who, it was well known, on festive occasions, garnished his board with a real silver teapot, cream ewer and sugar basin, which he was wont in the pride of his heart to boast should be his daughter's property when she found a man to her mind. I repeat it, to be matter of profound astonishment and intense wonder that Nathaniel Pipkin should have had the temerity to cast his eyes in this direction. But love is blind and Nathaniel had a cast in his eye, and perhaps these two circumstances, taken together, prevented his seeing the matter in its proper light. Now if Old Lobbs had entertained the most remote or distant idea of the state of the affections of Nathaniel Pipkin, he would just have raised the school room to the ground, or exterminated its master from the surface of the earth, or committed some other outrage and atrocity of an equally ferocious and violent description, for he was a terrible old fellow, was Lobbs, when his pride was injured or his blood was up. Swear! Such trains of oaths would come rolling and peeling over the way sometimes when he was denouncing the idleness of the bony apprentice with the thin legs that Nathaniel Pipkin would shake in his shoes with horror, and the hair of the pupil's heads would stand on end with fright. Well, day after day when school was over and the pupils gone, did Nathaniel Pipkin sit himself down at the front window, and while he feigned to be reading a book, throw side-long glances over the way in search of the bright eyes of Maria Lobbs. And he hadn't sat there many days before the bright eyes appeared at an upper window, apparently deeply engaged in reading, too. This was delightful and gladdening to the heart of Nathaniel Pipkin. It was something to sit there for hours together and look upon that pretty face when the eyes were cast down. But when Maria Lobbs began to raise her eyes from her book and dart their rays in the direction of Nathaniel Pipkin, his delight and admiration were perfectly boundless. At last one day when he knew old Lobbs was out, Nathaniel Pipkin had the temerity to kiss his hand to Maria Lobbs, and Maria Lobbs, instead of shutting the window and pulling down the blind, kissed hers to him and smiled, upon which Nathaniel Pipkin determined that come what might he would develop the state of his feelings without further delay. A prettier foot, a gayer heart, a more dimpled face, or a smarter form, never bounded so lightly over the earth they graced as did those of Maria Lobbs, the old Saddler's daughter. There was a roguish twinkle in her sparkling eyes that would have made its way to far less susceptible bosoms than that of Nathaniel Pipkin. And there was such a joyous sound in her merry laugh that the sternest misson throat must have smiled to hear it. Even old Lobbs himself in the very height of his ferocity couldn't resist the coaxing of his pretty daughter. And when she and her cousin Kate, an arch-impedant-looking, bewitching little person, made a dead set upon the old man together, as, to say the truth, they very often did, he could have refused them nothing, even had they asked for a portion of the countless and inexhaustible treasures which were hidden from the light in the iron safe. Nathaniel Pipkin's heart beat high within him, when he saw this enticing little couple some hundred yards before him one summer's evening in the very field in which he had many a time strolled about till night-time and pondered on the beauty of Maria Lobbs. But though he had often thought then how briskly he would walk up to Maria Lobbs and tell her of his passion if he could only meet her, he felt, now that she was unexpectedly before him, all the blood in his body mounting to his face manifestly to the great detriment of his legs which deprived of their usual portion trembled beneath him. When they stopped to gather a hedge-flower or listen to a bird, Nathaniel Pipkin stopped too and pretended to be absorbed in meditation, as indeed he really was, for he was thinking what on earth he should ever do when they turned back, as they inevitably must in time, and meet him face to face. But though he was afraid to make up to them, he couldn't bear to lose sight of them, so when they walked faster he walked faster, when they lingered he lingered, and when they stopped he stopped. And so they might have gone on until the darkness prevented them if Kate had not looked slyly back and encouragingly beckoned Nathaniel to advance. There was something in Kate's manner that was not to be resisted, and so Nathaniel Pipkin complied with the invitation. And after a great deal of blushing on his part, an immoderate laughter on that of the wicked little cousin, Nathaniel Pipkin went down on his knees on the dewy grass and declared his resolution to remain there forever unless he were permitted to rise the accepted lover of Maria Lobbs. Upon this the merry laughter of Miss Lobbs rang through the calm evening air without seeming to disturb it, though. It had such a pleasant sound, and the wicked little cousin laughed more immoderately than before, and Nathaniel Pipkin blushed deeper than ever. At length Maria Lobbs being more strenuously urged by the love-worn little man turned away her head and whispered her cousin to say, or at all events Kate did say, that she felt much honored by Mr. Pipkin's addresses, that her hand and heart were at her father's disposal, but that nobody could be insensible to Mr. Pipkin's merits. As all this was said with much gravity and as Nathaniel Pipkin walked home with Maria Lobbs and struggled for a kiss at parting, he went to bed a happy man and dreamed all night long of softening old Lobbs, opening the strong box and marrying Maria. The next day Nathaniel Pipkin saw old Lobbs go out upon his old gray pony, and after a great many signs at the window from the wicked little cousin, the object and meaning of which he could by no means understand, the bony apprentice with the thin legs came over to say that his master wasn't coming home all night, and that the ladies expected Mr. Pipkin to tea at six o'clock precisely. How the lessons were got through that day neither Nathaniel Pipkin nor his pupils knew any more than you do, but they were got through somehow, and after the boys had gone, Nathaniel Pipkin took till full six o'clock to dress himself to his satisfaction. Not that it took long to select the garments he should wear in as much as he had no choice about the matter, but the putting of them on to the best advantage and the touching of them up previously was a task of no inconsiderable difficulty or importance. There was a very snug little party consisting of Maria Lobbs and her cousin Kate and three or four romping good-humored rosy cheeked girls. Nathaniel Pipkin had ocular demonstration of the fact that the rumors of old Lobbs' treasures were not exaggerated. There were the real solid silver teapot, cream-ewar and sugar-basin on the table, and real silver spoons to stir the tea with, and real china cups to drink it out of, and plates of the same to hold the cakes and toast in. The only eyesore in the whole place was another cousin of Maria Lobbs' and a brother of Kate, who Maria Lobbs called Henry, and who seemed to keep Maria Lobbs all to himself up in one corner of the table. It's a delightful thing to see affection in families, but it may be carried rather too far, and Nathaniel Pipkin could not help thinking that Maria Lobbs must be very particularly fond of her relations if she paid as much attention to all of them as to this individual cousin. After tea, too, when the wicked little cousin proposed a game at blind man's bluff, it somehow or other happened that Nathaniel Pipkin was nearly always blind, and whenever he laid his hand upon the male cousin, he was sure to find that Maria Lobbs was not far off. And though the wicked little cousin and the other girls pinched him and pulled his hair and pushed chairs in his way and all sorts of things, Maria Lobbs never seemed to come near him at all. And once, once, Nathaniel Pipkin could have sworn he heard the sound of a kiss followed by a fateful remonstrance from Maria Lobbs and a half-suppressed laugh from her female friends. All this was odd, very odd, and there is no saying what Nathaniel Pipkin might or might not have done in consequence if his thoughts had not been suddenly directed into a new channel. The circumstance which directed his thoughts into a new channel was a loud knocking at the street door, and the person who made this loud knocking at the street door was no other than old Lobbs himself who had unexpectedly returned and was hammering away like a coffin-maker, for he wanted his supper. The alarming intelligence was no sooner communicated by the bony apprentice with the thin legs than the girls tripped upstairs to Maria Lobbs' bedroom, and the male cousin and Nathaniel Pipkin were thrust into a couple of closets in the sitting-room for want of any better places of concealment. And when Maria Lobbs and the wicked little cousin had stowed them away and put the room to rights, they opened to the street door to old Lobbs, who had never left off knocking since he first began. Now, it did unfortunately happen that old Lobbs being very hungry was monstrous cross. Nathaniel Pipkin could hear him growling away like an old mastiff with a sore throat, and whenever the unfortunate apprentice with the thin legs came into the room, so surely did old Lobbs commence swearing at him in a most serocenic and ferocious manner, though apparently with no other end or object than that of easing his bosom by the discharge of a few superfluous oaths. At length some supper which had been warming up was placed on the table, and then old Lobbs fell, too, in regular style, and having made clear work of it in no time kissed his daughter and demanded his pipe. Nature had placed Nathaniel Pipkin's knees in very close juxtaposition, but when he heard old Lobbs demand his pipe, they knocked together as if they were going to reduce each other to powder. Four, depending from a couple of hooks in the very closet in which he stood, was a large brown-stemmed silver-bold pipe, which pipe he himself had seen in the mouth of old Lobbs regularly every afternoon and evening for the last five years. The two girls went downstairs for the pipe and upstairs for the pipe and everywhere but where they knew the pipe was. And old Lobbs stormed away, meanwhile, in the most wonderful manner. At last he thought of the closet and walked up to it. It was of no use a little man like Nathaniel Pipkin pulling the door inwards when a great strong fellow like old Lobbs was pulling it outwards. Old Lobbs gave it one tug and opened it flu, disclosing Nathaniel Pipkin standing bold upright inside and shaking with apprehension from head to foot. Bless us, what an appalling look old Lobbs gave him as he dragged him out by the collar and held him at arm's length. Why, what the devil do you want here? said old Lobbs in a fearful voice. Nathaniel Pipkin could make no reply, so old Lobbs shook him backwards and forwards for two or three minutes by way of arranging his ideas for him. What do you want here, Lord Lobbs? I suppose you have come after my daughter now. Old Lobbs merely said this as a sneer, for he did not believe that mortal presumption could have carried Nathaniel Pipkin so far. What was his indignation when that poor man replied, Yes, I did, Mr. Lobbs. I did come after your daughter. I love her, Mr. Lobbs. Why, you sniveling wry face puny villain, gasped old Lobbs, paralyzed by the atrocious confession. What do you mean by that? Say this to my face. Damn, I'll throttle you. It is by no means improbable that old Lobbs would have carried his threat into execution in the excess of his rage if his arm had not been stayed by a very unexpected apparition. To wit, the male cousin, who, stepping out of his closet and walking up to old Lobbs, said, I cannot allow this harmless person, sir, who has been asked here in some girlish frolic to take upon himself in a very noble manner the fault, if fault it is, which I am guilty of and am ready to avow. I love your daughter, sir, and I came here for the purpose of meeting her. Old Lobbs opened his eyes very wide at this, but not wider than Nathaniel Pipkin. You did, said Lobbs, at last finding breath to speak. I did. And I forbade you this house long ago. You did, or I should not have been here clandestinely to-night. I am sorry to record it of old Lobbs, but I think he would have struck the cousin of his pretty daughter with her bright eyes swimming in tears had not clung to his arm. Don't stop him, Maria, said the young man, if he has the will to strike me, let him. I would not hurt a hair of his gray head for the riches of the world. The old man cast down his eyes at this reproof, and they met those of his daughter. I have hinted once or twice before that they were very bright eyes, and though they were cheerful now, their influence was by no means lessened. Old Lobbs turned his head away as if to avoid being persuaded by them. When his fortune would have it, he encountered the face of the wicked little cousin, who half afraid for her brother, and half laughing at Nathaniel Pipkin, presented as bewitching an expression of countenance, with a touch of slinus in it, too, as any man, older young, need look upon. She drew her arm coaxingly through the old man's, and whispered something in his ear, and do what he would, old Lobbs couldn't help breaking out into a smile, while a tear stole down his cheek at the same time. Five minutes after this, the girls were brought down from the bedroom with a great deal of giggling and modesty, and while the young people were making themselves perfectly happy, old Lobbs got down the pipe and smoked it, and it was a remarkable circumstance about that particular pipe of tobacco, that it was the most soothing and delightful one he ever smoked. Nathaniel Pipkin thought it best to keep his own counsel, and by so doing gradually rose into high favor with old Lobbs, who taught him to smoke in time, and they used to sit out in the garden on the fine evenings, for many years afterwards, smoking and drinking in great state. He soon recovered the effects of his attachment, for we find his name in the parish register as a witness to the marriage of Maria Lobbs to her cousin, and it also appears, by reference to other documents, that on the night of the wedding he was incarcerated in the village cage for having, in a state of extreme intoxication, committed sundry excesses in the streets, in all of which he was aided and abetted by the bony apprentice with the thin legs. CHAPTER XVIII For two days after the Dejeuner admises hunters, the Pikwikians remained at Eaton's will, anxiously awaiting the arrival of some intelligence from their revered leader. Mr. Teppmann and Mr. Snodgrass were once again left to their own means of amusement. For Mr. Winkle, in compliance with the most pressing invitation, continued to reside at Mr. Pot's house and to devote his time to the companionship of his amiable lady, nor was the occasional society of Mr. Pot himself wanting to complete their felicity. Deeply immersed in the intensity of his speculations for the public wheel and the destruction of the independent, it was not the habit of that great man to descend from his mental pinnacle to the humble level of ordinary minds. On this occasion, however, and as if expressly incompliment to any follower of Mr. Pikwik's, he unbent, relaxed, stepped down from his pedestal and walked upon the ground, benignly adapting his remarks to the comprehension of the herd, and seeming in outward form, if not in spirit, to be one of them. Such having been the demeanor of this celebrated public character towards Mr. Winkle, it will be readily imagined that considerable surprise was depicted on the countenance of the latter gentleman, when, as he was sitting alone in the breakfast-room, the door was hastily thrown open and is hastily closed on the entrance of Mr. Pot, who, stalking majestically towards him, and thrusting aside his proffered hand, ground his teeth as if to put a sharper edge on what he was about to utter, and exclaimed in a saw-like voice, Serpent, Sir, exclaimed Mr. Winkle, starting from his chair, Serpent, Sir, repeated Mr. Pot, raising his voice, and then suddenly depressing it. I said, Serpent, Sir, make the most of it. When you have parted with a man at two o'clock in the morning on terms of the utmost good fellowship, and he meets you again at half-past nine and greets you as a Serpent, it is not unreasonable to conclude that something of an unpleasant nature has occurred meanwhile. So Mr. Winkle thought. He returned Mr. Pot's gaze of stone and in compliance with that gentleman's request, proceeded to make the most he could of the Serpent. The most, however, was nothing at all, so after a profound silence of some minutes' duration he said, Serpent, Sir, Serpent, Mr. Pot, what can you mean, Sir? This is pleasantry. Pleasantry, Sir, exclaimed Pot, with a motion of the hand indicative of a strong desire to hurl the Britannium-metal teapot at the head of the visitor. Pleasantry, Sir. But no, I will be calm. I will be calm, Sir. In proof of his calmness Mr. Pot flung himself into a chair and foamed at the mouth. My dear, Sir, interposed Mr. Winkle. Dear, Sir, replied Pot, how dare you address me as dear, Sir. How dare you look me in the face and do it, Sir? Well, Sir, if you come to that, responded Mr. Winkle, how dare you look me in the face and call me a Serpent, Sir? As you are one, replied Mr. Pot. Prove it, Sir, said Mr. Winkle warmly. Prove it. A malignant scowl passed over the profound face of the editor as he drew from his pocket the independent of that morning and laying his finger on a particular paragraph through the journal across the table to Mr. Winkle. That gentleman took it up and read as follows. Our obscure and filthy contemporary in some disgusting observations on the recent election for this borough has presumed to violate the hallowed sanctity of private life and to refer in a manner not to be misunderstood to the personal affairs of our late candidate. I, and notwithstanding his base defeat, we will add our future member, Mr. Fizkin. What does our dastardly contemporary mean? What would the ruffians say if we, setting it not like him the decencies of social intercourse, were to raise the curtain which happily conceals his private life from general ridicule, not to say from general execration? What if we were even to point out and comment on facts and circumstances which are publicly notorious and be held by everyone but our molied contemporary? What if we were to print the following effusion which we received while we were writing the commencement of this article from a talented fellow townsman and correspondent? Lines to a brass pot. O pot, if you'd known how false she'd have grown when you heard the marriage bells tinkle, you'd have done then I vow what you cannot help now and handed her over to W. What, said Mr. Pot solemnly, what rhymes to tinkle, villain? What rhymes to tinkle? Said Mrs. Pot, whose entrance at the moment forestalled the reply? What rhymes to tinkle? Why, winkle, I should conceive. Saying this, Mrs. Pot smiled sweetly on the disturbed Pickwickian and extended her hand towards him. The agitated young man would have accepted it in his confusion had not Pot indignantly interposed. Back, ma'am, back, said the editor, take his hand before my very face. Mr. P. said his astonished lady. Wretched woman, look here! exclaimed the husband. Look here, ma'am. Lines to a brass pot. Brass pot, that's me, ma'am. False she'd have grown. That's you, ma'am, you. With this abolition of rage which was not unaccompanied with something like a tremble at the expression of his wife's face, Mr. Pot dashed the current number of the eaten swill independent at her feet. Upon my word, sir, said the astonished Mrs. Pot, stooping to pick up the paper. Upon my word, sir! Mr. Pot winced, beneath the contemptuous gaze of his wife. He had made a desperate struggle to screw up his courage, but it was fast coming unscrewed again. There appears nothing very tremendous in this little sentence, upon my word, sir, when it comes to be read, but the tone of voice in which it was delivered, and the look that accompanied it, both seeming to bear reference to some revenge to be there after visited upon the head of Pot, produced their effect upon him. The most unskillful observer could have detected in his troubled countenance a readiness to resign his Wellington boots to any efficient substitute who would have consented to stand in them at that moment. Mrs. Pot read the paragraph, uttered a loud shriek, and threw herself at full length on the hearth rug, screaming and tapping it with the heels of her shoes in a manner which could leave no doubt of the propriety of her feelings on the occasion. My dear, said the terrified Pot, I didn't say I believed it, I—but the unfortunate man's voice was drowned in the screaming of his partner. Mrs. Pot, let me entreat you, my dear ma'am, to compose yourself, said Mr. Winkle, but the shrieks and tapings were louder and more frequent than ever. My dear, said Mr. Pot, I'm very sorry. If you won't consider your own health, consider me, my dear. We shall have a crowd round the house. But the more strenuously Mr. Pot entreated, the more vehemently the screams poured forth. Very fortunately, however, attached to Mrs. Pot's person was a bodyguard of one, a young lady whose ostensible employment was to preside over her toilet, but who rendered herself useful in a variety of ways, and in none more so than in the particular department of constantly aiding and abetting her mistress in every wish and inclination opposed to the desires of the unhappy Pot. The screams reached this young lady's ears in due course, and brought her into the room with a speed which threatened to derange materially the very exquisite arrangement of her cap and ringlets. Oh, my dear, dear mistress! exclaimed the bodyguard, kneeling frantically by the side of the prostrate Mrs. Pot. Oh, my dear mistress, what is the matter? Your master, your brutal master, murmured the patient. Pot was evidently giving way. It's a shame, said the bodyguard reproachfully. I know he'll be the death and you, ma'am, poor dear thing. He gave way more. The opposite party followed up the attack. Oh, don't leave me. Don't leave me, Goodwin, murmured Mrs. Pot, clutching at the wrist of the said Goodwin with an hysteric jerk. You're the only person that's kind to me, Goodwin. At this affecting appeal Goodwin got up a little domestic tragedy of her own and shed tears copiously. Never, ma'am, never, said Goodwin. Oh, sir, you should be careful. You should indeed. You don't know what harm you may do, Mrs. You'll be sorry for it one day. I know. I've always said so. The unlucky Pot looked timidly on, but said nothing. Goodwin? said Mrs. Pot in a soft voice. Ma'am, said Goodwin, if you only knew how I have loved that man, don't distress yourself by recollecting it, ma'am, said the bodyguard. Pot looked very frightened. It was time to finish him. And now, sobbed Mrs. Pot, now, after all to be treated in this way, to be reproached and insulted in the presence of a third party, and that party almost a stranger. But I will not submit to it, Goodwin, continued Mrs. Pot, raising herself in the arms of her attendant. My brother, the Lieutenant, shall interfere. I'll be separated, Goodwin. It would certainly serve him right, ma'am, said Goodwin. Whatever thoughts the threat of a separation might have awakened in Mr. Pot's mind, he forbore to give utterance to them and contented himself by saying with great humility, My dear, will you hear me? A fresh train of sobs was the only reply as Mrs. Pot grew more hysterical, requested to be informed why she was ever born, and required sundry other pieces of information of a similar description. My dear, remonstrated Mr. Pot, do not give way to these sensitive feelings. I never believed that the paragraph had any foundation, my dear. Impossible. I was only angry, my dear. I may say outrageous, with the independent people for daring to insert it. That's all. Mr. Pot cast an imploring look at the innocent cause of the mischief as if to entreat him to say nothing about the serpent. And what steps, sir, do you mean to take to obtain redress, inquired Mr. Winkle, gaining courage as he saw Pot losing it? Oh, Goodwin, observed Mrs. Pot. Does he mean to horse whip the editor of the independent? Does he, Goodwin? Hush, ma'am, pray, keep yourself quiet, replied the bodyguard. I daresay he will, if you wish it, ma'am. Certainly, said Pot, as his wife events decided symptoms of going off again, of course I shall. When, Goodwin, when? said Mrs. Pot, still undecided about the going off. Immediately, of course, said Mr. Pot, before the day is out. Oh, Goodwin, resumed Mrs. Pot. It's the only way of meeting the slander and setting me right with the world. Certainly, ma'am, replied Goodwin, no man as is a man, ma'am, could refuse to do it. So, as the hysterics were still hovering about, Mr. Pot said once more that he would do it. But Mrs. Pot was so overcome at the bare idea of having ever been suspected that she was half a dozen times on the very verge of a relapse, and most unquestionably would have gone off had it not been for the indefatigable efforts of the assiduous Goodwin and repeated entreaties for pardon from the conquered Pot. And finally, when that unhappy individual had been frightened and snubbed down to his proper level, Mrs. Pot recovered and they went to breakfast. You will not allow this base newspaper slander to shorten your stay here, Mr. Winkle, said Mrs. Pot, smiling through the traces of her tears. I hope not, said Mr. Pot, actuated as he spoke by a wish that his visitor would choke himself with the morsel of dried toast which he was raising to his lips at the moment, and so terminate his stay effectually. I hope not. You are very good, said Mr. Winkle. But a letter has been received from Mr. Pickwick, so I learned by a note from Mr. Tubman, which was brought up to my bedroom door this morning, in which he requests us to join him at Burry today, and we are to leave by the coach at noon. But you will come back, said Mrs. Pot. Oh, certainly, replied Mr. Winkle. You were quite sure, said Mrs. Pot, stealing a tender look at her visitor. Quite, responded Mr. Winkle. The breakfast passed off in silence, for each of the party was brooding over his or her own personal grievances. Mrs. Pot was regretting the loss of a bow. Mr. Pot, his rash pledge to horse whip the independent. Mr. Winkle has having innocently placed himself in so awkward a situation. Noon approached, and after many adoes and promises to return, he tore himself away. If he ever comes back, I'll poison him, thought Mr. Pot, as he turned into the little back office where he prepared his thunderbolts. If I ever do come back and mix myself up with these people again, thought Mr. Winkle, as he wended his way to the peacock, I shall deserve to be horse whipped myself. That's all. His friends were ready. The coach was nearly so, and in half an hour they were proceeding on their journey, along the road over which Mr. Pickwick and Sam had so recently traveled, and of which, as we have already said something, we do not feel called upon to extract Mr. Snodgrass's poetical and beautiful description. Mr. Weller was standing at the door of the angel, ready to receive them, and by that gentleman they were ushered to the apartment of Mr. Pickwick, where, to the no small surprise of Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass and the no small embarrassment of Mr. Tubman, they found Old Wardle and Trundle. How are you, said the old man, grasping Mr. Tubman's hand? Don't hang back or look sentimental about it. It can't be helped, old fellow. For her sake, I wish you'd had her. For your own, I'm very glad you have not. A young fellow like you will do better one of these days, eh? With this conclusion, Wardle slapped Mr. Tubman on the back and laughed heartily. Well, and how are you, my fine fellows, said the old gentleman, shaking hands with Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass at the same time? I have just been telling Pickwick that we must have you all down at Christmas. We're going to have a wedding, a real wedding, this time. A wedding, exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, turning very pale. Yes, a wedding, but don't be frightened, said the good, humored old man. It's only Trundle there, and Bella. Oh, is that awesome, Mr. Snodgrass? Relieved from a painful doubt which had fallen heavily on his breast. Give you joy, sir. How is Joe? Very well, replied the old gentleman, sleepy as ever. And your mother and the clergyman and all of them? Quite well. Where, said Mr. Tubman with an effort, where is she, sir? And he turned away his head and covered his eyes with his hand. She, said the old gentleman with a knowing shake of the head, do you mean my single relative eh? Mr. Tubman, by a nod, intimated that his question applied to the disappointed Rachel. Oh, she's gone away, said the old gentleman. She's living at a relations far enough off. She couldn't bear to see the girls, so I let her go. But come, here's the dinner. You must be hungry after your ride. I am without any ride at all, so let us fall too. Ample justice was done to the meal, and when they were seated round the table, after it had been disposed of, Mr. Pickwick, to the intense horror and indignation of his followers, related the adventure he had undergone, and the success which had attended the base artifices of the diabolical jingle. And the attack of rheumatism which I caught in that garden, said Mr. Pickwick in conclusion, renders me lame at this moment. I, too, have had something of an adventure, said Mr. Winkle with a smile, and at the request of Mr. Pickwick, he detailed the malicious libel of the eating swill independent, and the consequent excitement of their friendly editor. Mr. Pickwick's brow darkens during the recital. His friends observed it, and when Mr. Winkle had concluded, maintained a profound silence. Mr. Pickwick struck the table emphatically with his clenched fist, and spoke as follows. Is it not a wonderful circumstance, said Mr. Pickwick, that we seem destined to enter no man's house without involving him in some degree of trouble? Does it not, I ask, bespeak the indiscretion, or worsten at the blackness of heart, that I should say so, of my followers, that beneath whatever roof they locate they disturb the peace of mind and happiness of some confiding female? Is it not, I say, Mr. Pickwick would, in all probability of going on for some time, had not the entrance of Sam with a letter caused him to break off in his eloquent discourse. He passed his handkerchief across his forehead, took off his spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again, and his voice had recovered its wanted softness of tone when he said, What have you there, Sam? Called at the post office just now and found this here letter, as has laid there for two days, replied Mr. Weller, It's sealed with a vapor and directed in round hand. I don't know this hand, said Mr. Pickwick, opening the letter. Mercy on us, what's this? It must be a jest. It can't be true. What's the matter, was the general inquiry. Nobody dead is there, said Wardle, alarmed at the horror and Mr. Pickwick's countenance. Mr. Pickwick made no reply, but pushing the letter across the table and desiring Mr. Tubman to read it aloud, fell back in his chair with a look of vacant astonishment quite alarming to behold. Mr. Tubman, with a trembling voice, read the letter of which the following is a copy. Freeman's Court, Cornhill, August 28, 1827. Bardell Against Pickwick Sir, having been instructed by Mrs. Martha Bardell to commence an action against you for a breach of promise of marriage for which the plaintiff lays her damages at fifteen hundred pounds, we beg to inform you that a writ has been issued against you in this suit in the Court of Common Please, and request to know by return of post the name of your attorney in London who will accept service thereof. We are, sir, your obedient servants Dodson and Fogg. Mr. Samuel Pickwick There was something so impressive in the mute astonishment with which each man regarded his neighbor and every man regarded Mr. Pickwick that all seemed afraid to speak. The silence was at length broken by Mr. Tubman. Dodson and Fogg, he repeated mechanically, Bardell and Pickwick, said Mr. Snodgrass musing. Peace of mind and happiness of confiding females murmured Mr. Winkle with an air of abstraction. It's a conspiracy, said Mr. Pickwick at length recovering the power of speech, a base conspiracy between these two grasping attorneys, Dodson and Fogg. Mrs. Bardell would never do it. She hasn't the heart to do it. She hasn't the case to do it. Ridiculous, ridiculous! Of her heart, said Wardle with a smile, you should certainly be the best judge. I don't wish to discourage you, but I should certainly say that of her case, Dodson and Fogg are far better judges than any of us can be. It's a vile attempt to extort money, said Mr. Pickwick. I hope it is, said Wardle with a short dry cough. Who ever heard me address her in any way but that in which Elijah would address his landlady, continued Mr. Pickwick with great vehemence. Who ever saw me with her? Not even my friends here. Except on one occasion, said Mr. Tubman. Mr. Pickwick changed color. Ah, said Mr. Wardle. Well, that's important. There was nothing suspicious then, I suppose. Mr. Tubman glanced timidly at his leader. Why, said he, there was nothing suspicious, but I don't know how it happened, mind. She certainly was reclining in his arms. Gracious powers, ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, as the recollection of the scene in question struck forcibly upon him. What a dreadful instance of the force of circumstances. So she was, so she was. And our friend was soothing her anguish, said Mr. Winkle, rather maliciously. So I was, said Mr. Pickwick. I don't deny it. So I was. Hello, said Wardle, for a case in which there's nothing suspicious, this looks rather queer, eh, Pickwick? Sly dog, sly dog, and he laughed till the glasses on the sideboard rang again. What a dreadful conjunction of appearances, exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, resting his chin upon his hands. Winkle, Tubman, I beg your pardon for the observations I made just now. We are all the victims of circumstances, and I the greatest. With this apology Mr. Pickwick buried his head in his hands and ruminated, while Wardle measured out a regular circle of nods and winks addressed to the other members of the company. I'll have it explained, though, said Mr. Pickwick, raising his head and hammering the table. I'll see this Dodson and Fogg. I'll go to London tomorrow. Not tomorrow, said Wardle, you're too lame. Well, then, next day. Next day is the first of September, and you're pledged to ride out with us, as far as Sir Jeffrey Manning's grounds at all events, and to meet us at lunch, if you don't take the field. Well, then the day after, said Mr. Pickwick, Thursday. Sam, sir, replied Mr. Weller, take two places outside to London on Thursday morning for yourself and me. Very well, sir. Mr. Weller left the room and departed slowly on his errand, with his hands in his pocket and his eyes fixed on the ground. Rum feller the Emperor, said Mr. Weller, as he walked slowly up the street. Think of his making up to that air, Mrs. Bardell, with the little boy, too. Always the vape at these here olden's house, so ever, as is such steady goers to look at. I didn't think he'd had done it, though. I didn't think he'd had done it. Moralizing in this strain, Mr. Samuel Weller bent his steps towards the booking office. End of Chapter 18. Chapter 19 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 19. A pleasant day with an unpleasant termination. The birds, who happily for their own peace of mind in personal comfort were in blissful ignorance of the preparations which had been making to astonish them on the first of September, hailed it, no doubt, as one of the pleasantest mornings they had seen that season. Many a young partridge who strutted complacently among the stubble with all the finnicking cockscomery of youth, and many an older one who watched his levity out of his little round eye with the contemptuous air of a bird of wisdom and experience, a like unconscious of their approaching doom, basked in the fresh morning air with lively and blithesome feelings, and a few hours afterwards were laid low upon the earth. But we grow affecting. Let us proceed. In plain commonplace matter of fact, then, it was a fine morning, so fine that you would scarcely have believed that the few months of an English summer had yet flown by. Hedges, fields and trees, hill and moorland, presented to the eye their ever-varying shades of deep rich green. Scarce a leaf had fallen, scarce a sprinkle of yellow, mingled with the hues of summer, warned you that the bottom had begun. The sky was cloudless, the sun shone out bright and warm, the songs of birds, the hum of myriads of summer insects filled the air, and the cottage gardens crowded with flowers of every rich and beautiful tint sparkled in the heavy dew like beds of glittering jewels. Everything bore the stamp of summer, and none of its beautiful color had yet faded from the dye. Such was the morning, when an open carriage in which were three pick-wickyans, Mr. Snodgrass having preferred to remain at home, Mr. Whittle and Mr. Trundle with Sam Weller on the box beside the driver pulled up by a gate at the roadside, before which stood a tall, raw-boned gamekeeper and a half-booted leather-legging boy, each bearing a bag of capacious dimensions and accompanied by a brace of pointers. I say, whispered Mr. Whittle to Whittle as the man let down the steps, they don't suppose we're going to kill game enough to fill those bags, do they? Fill them, exclaimed old Whittle, bless you, yes! You shall fill one and I the other, and when we've done with them the pockets of our shooting jackets will hold as much more. Mr. Whittle dismounted without saying anything and replied to this observation, but he thought within himself that if the party remained in the open air till he had filled one of the bags, they stood a considerable chance of catching colds in their heads. Hi, Juneau lass, hi, old girl, down, daff, down, said Whittle, caressing the dogs. Sir Jeffrey still in Scotland, of course, Martin? The tall gamekeeper replied in the affirmative and looked with some surprise from Mr. Whittle, who was holding his gun as if he wished his coat pocket to save him the trouble of pulling the trigger, to Mr. Tubman, who was holding his as if he was afraid of it, as there was no earthly reason to doubt he really was. My friends are not much in the way of this sort of thing yet, Martin, said Whittle, noticing the look. Live and learn, you know. There'll be good shots one of these days. I beg my friend, Winkle, pardon, though. He has had some practice. Mr. Winkle smiled feebly over his blue neckerchief, in acknowledgement of the compliment, and got himself so mysteriously entangled with his gun in his modest confusion, that if the piece had been loaded, he must inevitably have shot himself dead upon the spot. You mustn't handle your peace in that airway when you come to have the charge in it, sir, said the tall gamekeeper gruffly, or I'm damned if you won't make cold meat of some of us. Mr. Winkle thus admonished abruptly altered his position, and in so doing contrived to bring the barrel into pretty smart contact with Mr. Weller's head. Hello, said Sam, picking up his hat, which had been knocked off and rubbing his temple. Hello, sir. If you come this way, you'll fill one of them bags and something to spare at one fire. Here the leather-legged boy laughed very hardly, and then tried to look as if it was somebody else, where at Mr. Winkle frowned majestically. Where did you tell the boy to meet us with the snack, Martin, inquired Whittle? Side of one tree hill at twelve o'clock, sir. That's not Sir Jeffrey's land, is it? No, sir, but it's close by it. It's Captain Bouldwick's land. But there'll be nobody to interrupt us, and there's a fine bit of turf there. Very well, said old Whittle. Now the sooner we're off, the better. Will you join us at twelve, then, Pickwick? Mr. Pickwick was particularly desirous to view the sport, the more especially as he was rather anxious in respect of Mr. Winkle's life and limbs. On so inviting a morning, too, it was very tantalizing to turn back and leave his friends to enjoy themselves. It was, therefore, with a very rueful air that he replied, Why, I suppose I must. Ain't the gentleman a shot, sir? inquired the long gamekeeper. No, replied Whittle, and he's lame besides. I should very much like to go, said Mr. Pickwick very much. There was a short pause of commiseration. There's a barrow to other side the hedge, said the boy. If the gentleman's servant would wheel along the paths, he could keep nice, and we could lift it over the styles in that. The wary thing, said Mr. Weller, who was a party interested in as much as he ardently longed to see the sport. The wary thing, well said small cheek, I'll have it out in a minute. But here a difficulty arose. The long gamekeeper resolutely protested against the introduction into a shooting party of a gentleman in a barrel, as a gross violation of all established rules and precedents. It was a great objection, but not an insurmountable one. The gamekeeper, having been coaxed and feed, and having moreover eased his mind by punching the head of the inventive youth who had first suggested the use of the machine, Mr. Pickwick was placed in it and off the party set. Wardle and the long gamekeeper leading the way and Mr. Pickwick in the barrel, propelled by Sam, bringing up the rear. Stop, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, when they had got half across the first field. What's the matter now, said Wardle. I won't suffer this barrel to be moved another step, said Mr. Pickwick resolutely, unless Winkle carries that gun of his in a different manner. How am I to carry it, said the wretched Winkle. Carry it with the muzzle to the ground, replied Mr. Pickwick. It's so unsportsmanlike, reasoned Winkle. I don't care whether it's unsportsmanlike or not, replied Mr. Pickwick. I'm not going to be shot in a wheel barrel for the sake of appearances to please anybody. I know the gentleman will put that air charge into somebody before he's done, growled the long man. Well, well, I don't mind, said poor Winkle, turning his gun stock uppermost there. Anything for a quiet life, said Mr. Weller, and on they went again. Stop, said Mr. Pickwick, after they had gone a few yards farther. What now, said Wardle. The gun of Tupmans is not safe, I know it isn't, said Mr. Pickwick. Eh, what, not safe, said Mr. Tupman, in a tone of great alarm. Not as you are carrying it, said Mr. Pickwick. I am very sorry to make any further objection, but I cannot consent to go on unless you carry it, as Winkle does his. I think you had better, sir, said the long gamekeeper, or you're quite as likely to lodge the charge in yourself as in anything else. Mr. Tupman, with the most obliging haste, placed his peace in the position required, and the party moved on again, the two amateurs marching with reversed arms, like a couple of privates at a royal funeral. The dogs suddenly came to a dead stop, and the party advancing stealthily, a single pace, stopped too. What's the matter with the dogs' legs, whispered Mr. Winkle, how queer they're standing. Hush, can't you? Replied Wardle softly. Don't you see they're making a point? Making a point, said Mr. Winkle, staring about him, as if he expected to discover some particular beauty in the landscape, which the sagacious animals were calling special attention to. Making a point, what are they pointing at? Keep your eyes open, said Wardle, not heeding the question in the excitement of the moment. Now then. There was a sharp whirring noise that made Mr. Winkle start back as if he had been shot himself. Bang, bang, when a couple of guns, the smoke swept quickly away over the field and curled into the air. Where are they, said Mr. Winkle, in a state of the highest excitement, turning red, turning green, in the highest excitement, turning round and round in all directions. Where are they? Tell me when to fire. Where are they, where are they? Where are they, said Wardle, taking up a brace of birds which the dogs had deposited at his feet. Well, here they are. Oh, no, I mean the others, said the bewildered Winkle. Far enough off by this time, replied Wardle, coolly reloading his gun. We shall very likely be up with another covey in five minutes, said the long gamekeeper. The gentleman begins to fire now. Perhaps he'll just get the shot out of the barrel by the time they rise. Ha, ha, ha, roared Mr. Weller. Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, compassionating his followers' confusion and embarrassment. Sir, don't laugh. Certainly not, sir. So, by way of indemnification, Mr. Weller contorted his features from behind the wheelbarrow for the exclusive amusement of the boy with the leggings, who thereupon burst into a boisterous laugh and was summarily cuffed by the long gamekeeper, who wanted a pretext for turning round to hide his own vehement. Brave old fellow, said Wardle, to Mr. Tubman, you fired that time at all events. Oh, yes, replied Mr. Tubman with conscious pride. I let it off. Well done. You'll hit something next time, if you look sharp. Very easy, ain't it? Yes, it's very easy, said Mr. Tubman. How it hurts one's shoulder, though. It nearly knocked me backwards. I had no idea these small firearms kicked so. Ah, said the old gentleman smiling, you'll get used to it in time. Now then, all ready. All right with the barrel there? All right, sir, replied Mr. Weller. Come along, then. Hold hard, sir, said Sam, raising the barrel. Aye-aye, replied Mr. Pickwick, and on they went as briskly as need be. Keep that barrel back now, cried Wardle, when it had been hoisted over a style into another field, and Mr. Pickwick had been deposited in it once more. All right, sir, replied Mr. Weller, pausing. Now, Winkle, said the old gentleman, follow me softly and don't be too late this time. Never fear, said Mr. Winkle. Are they pointing? No, no, not now. Quietly now, quietly. On they crept, and very quietly they would have advanced if Mr. Winkle, in the performance of some very intricate evolutions with his gun, had not accidentally fired at the most critical moment over the boy's head, exactly in the very spot where the tall man's brain would have been, had he been there instead. Well, what on earth did you do that for? Said old Wardle, as the birds flew unharmed away. I never saw such a gun in my life, replied poor Mr. Winkle, looking at the lock, as if that would do any good. It goes off of its own accord. It will do it. Will do it, echoed Wardle with something of irritation in his manner. I wish it would kill something of its own accord. It'll do that for long, sir. Observed the tall man in a low prophetic voice. What do you mean by that observation, sir? inquired Mr. Winkle angrily. Never mind, sir. Never mind, replied the long gamekeeper. I have no family myself, sir, and this here boy's mother will get something handsome from Sir Jeffery if he's killed on his land. Load again, sir, load again. Take away his gun, cried Mr. Pickwick from the barrel. Horror stricken at the long man's dark insinuations. Take away his gun, do you hear, somebody? Nobody, however, volunteered to obey the command, and Mr. Winkle, after darting a rebellious glance at Mr. Pickwick, reloaded his gun and proceeded onwards with the rest. We are bound on the authority of Mr. Pickwick to state that Mr. Tubman's mode of proceeding events far more of prudence and deliberation than that adopted by Mr. Winkle. Still, this by no means detracts from the great authority of the latter gentlemen on all matters connected with the field. Because, as Mr. Pickwick beautifully observes, it has somehow or other happened from time immemorial that many of the best and ablest philosophers who have been perfect lights of science in matters of theory have been wholly unable to reduce them to practice. Mr. Tubman's process, like many of our most sublime discoveries, was extremely simple. With the quickness and penetration of a man of genius, he had at once observed that the two great points to be attained were, first, to discharge his peace without injury to himself, and secondly, to do so without danger to the bystanders. Obviously, the best thing to do after surmounting the difficulty of firing at all was to shut his eyes firmly and fire into the air. On one occasion, after performing this feat, Mr. Tubman, on opening his eyes, beheld a plump partridge in the act of falling wounded to the ground. He was on the point of congratulating Mr. Wharton on his invariable success when that gentleman advanced towards him and grasped him warmly by the hand. Tubman, said the old gentleman, you singled out that particular bird? No, said Mr. Tubman, no. You did, said Wharton, I saw you do it. I observed you pick him out. I noticed you as you raised your peace to take aim, and I will say this, that the best shot in existence could not have done it more beautifully. You are an older hand at this than I thought you, Tubman. You have been out before. It was in vain for Mr. Tubman to protest with a smile of self-denial that he never had. The very smile was taken as evidence to the contrary. And from that time forth, his reputation was established. It is not the only reputation that has been acquired as easily, nor are such fortunate circumstances confined to partridge shooting. Meanwhile, Mr. Winkle flashed and blazed and smoked away without producing any material results worthy of being noted down, sometimes expending his charge in mid-air and at others sending it skimming along so near the surface of the ground as to place the lives of the two dogs on a rather uncertain and precarious tenure. As a display of fancy shooting, it was extremely varied and curious. As an exhibition of firing with any precise object, it was upon the whole perhaps a failure. It is an established axiom that every bullet has its billet. If it apply in an equal degree to shot, those of Mr. Winkle were unfortunate foundlings deprived of their natural rights, cast loose upon the world and billeted nowhere. Well, said Wardle, walking up to the side of the barrow and wiping the streams of perspiration from his jolly red face, smoking day, isn't it? It is indeed, replied Mr. Pickwick. The sun is tremendously hot, even to me. I don't know how you must feel it. Why, said the old gentleman, pretty hot. It's past twelve, though. You see that green hill there? Certainly. That's the place where we are to lunch, and by Jove there's the boy with the basket punctual as clockwork. So he is, said Mr. Pickwick, brightening up. Good boy that. I'll give him a shilling presently. Now then, Sam, wheel away. Hold on, sir, said Mr. Weller, invigorated with the prospect of refreshments. Out of the bay, young leathers, if you wally my precious life, don't upset me, as the gentleman said to the driver when there was a carry in him to Tyburn. And quickening his pace to a sharp run, Mr. Weller wheeled his master nimbly to the green hill, shot him dexterously out by the very side of the basket, and proceeded to unpack it with the utmost dispatch. Wheel pie, said Mr. Weller, soliloquizing as he arranged the eatables on the grass. Where a good thing is wheel pie, when you know the lady has made it, and is quite sure it ain't kittens. In order all, though, where's the odds, when they're so like wheel, that the weary piemen themselves don't know the difference. Don't they, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick? Not they, sir, replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat. I lodged in the same house with a pieman once, sir, and a very nice man he was. Regular clever chap, too. Make pies out of anything he could. What a number of cats you keep, Mr. Brooks, says I, when I'd got intimate with him. Ah, says he I do, a good many, says he. You must be wary for on a cat, says I. Other people is, says he, a winkin' at me. They ain't in season till the winter, though, says he. Not in season, says I. No, says he. Fruits as in, cats as out. But what do you mean, says I? Mean, says he, that I'll never be a party to the combination of the butchers to keep up the price of meat, says he. Mr. Weller, says he, a squeezing my hand, wary hard, and vispering in my ear. Don't mention this here again. But it's the seasonin' as does it. They're all made of them, noble animals, says he, a pointin' to a very nice little tabby kitten. And I seasons them for beefsteak, wheel, or kidney, according to the demand. And more than that, says he, I can make a wheel, a beefsteak, or a beefsteak, a kidney, or any one in him, a mutton, at a minute's notice, just as the market changes and appetites wary. He must have been a very ingenious young man, that, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, with a slight shudder. Just was, sir, replied Mr. Weller, continuing his occupation of emptying the basket, and the pies was beautiful. Tongue, well, that's a very good thing, when it ain't a woman's. Bread, knuckle of ham, regular pickter, cold beef and slices, very good. What's in them stone jar, young touch and go? Beer in this one, replied the boy, taking from his shoulder a couple of large stone bottles, fastened together by a leather strap, cold punch and tether. And a very good notion of a lunch it is, take it all together, said Mr. Weller, surveying his arrangement of the repast with great satisfaction. Now, gentlemen, fall on, as the English said to the French when they fixed baganettes. It needed no second invitation to induce the party to yield full justice to the meal. And as little pressing did it require to induce Mr. Weller, the long gamekeeper, and the two boys, to station themselves on the grass at a little distance and do good execution upon a decent proportion of the Viennes. An old oak afforded a pleasant shelter to the group, and a rich prospect of arable and meadowland intersected with luxuriant hedges and richly ornamented with wood lay spread out before them. This is delightful, thoroughly delightful, said Mr. Pickwick, the skin of whose expressive countenance was rapidly peeling off with exposure to the sun. So it is, so it is, old fellow, replied Wardle. Come, a glass of punch. With great pleasure, said Mr. Pickwick, the satisfaction of whose countenance, after drinking it, bore testimony to the sincerity of the reply. Good, said Mr. Pickwick, smacking his lips. Very good. I'll take another. Cool, very cool. Come, gentlemen, continued Mr. Pickwick, still retaining his hold upon the jar. A toast. Our friends at Dingley-Dell. The toast was drunk with loud acclamations. I'll tell you what I shall do to get up my shooting again, said Mr. Winkle, who was eating bread and ham with a pocket knife. I'll put a stuffed partridge on the top of a post and practice at it, beginning at a short distance and lengthening it by degrees. I understand his capital practice. I know a gentleman, sir, said Mr. Weller, as did that, and begun at two yards. But he never tried it on again, for he blowed the bird right clean away at the first fire, and nobody ever seed a feather on him out of words. Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, sir, replied Mr. Weller, have the goodness to reserve your anecdotes till they are called for. Certainly, sir. Here, Mr. Weller winked the eye, which was not concealed by the beer can he was raising to his lips, with such exquisite facetiousness that the two boys went into spontaneous convulsions, and even the long man condescended to smile. Well, that certainly is most capital cold punch, said Mr. Pickwick, looking earnestly at the stone bottle, and the day is extremely warm, and Topman, my dear friend, a glass of punch. With the greatest delight, replied Mr. Topman, and having drank that glass, Mr. Pickwick took another, just to see whether there was any orange peel in the punch, because orange peel always disagreed with him, and finding that there was not, Mr. Pickwick took another glass to the health of their absent friend, and then felt himself imperatively called upon to propose another in honor of the punch-compounder, unknown. This constant succession of glasses produced considerable effect upon Mr. Pickwick. His countenance beamed with the most sunny smiles, laughter played around his lips, and good-humored merriment twinkled in his eye. Yielding by degrees to the influence of the exciting liquid, rendered more so by the heat, Mr. Pickwick expressed a strong desire to recollect a song which he had heard in his infancy, and the attempt-proving abortive sought to stimulate his memory with more glasses of punch, which appeared to have quite a contrary effect. For, from forgetting the words of the song, he began to forget how to articulate any words at all, and finally, after rising to his legs to address the company in an eloquent speech, he fell into the varrow and fast asleep simultaneously. The basket having been repacked, and it being found perfectly impossible to awaken Mr. Pickwick from his torpor, some discussion took place whether it would be better for Mr. Weller to wheel his master back again, or to leave him where he was until they should all be ready to return. The latter course was at length decided on, and as the further expedition was not to exceed an hour's duration, and as Mr. Weller begged very hard to be one of the party, it was determined to leave Mr. Pickwick asleep in the varrow and to call for him on their return. So away they went, leaving Mr. Pickwick snoring most comfortably in the shade. That Mr. Pickwick would have continued to snore in the shade until his friends came back, or in default thereof, until the shades of evening had fallen on the landscape, there appears no reasonable cause to doubt, always supposing that he had been suffered to remain there in peace. But he was not suffered to remain there in peace, and this was what prevented him. Captain Bouldwig was a little fierce man in a stiff black neckerchief and blue shirt out, though, when he did condescend to walk about his property, did it in company with a thick retan stick, with a brass ferrule, and a gardener and sub-gardener with meek faces, to whom, the gardener is not the stick, Captain Bouldwig gave his orders with all due grandeur and ferocity. For Captain Bouldwig's wife's sister had married a marquee, and the captain's house was a villa, and his land grounds, and it was all very high and mighty and great. Mr. Pickwick had not been asleep half an hour when little Captain Bouldwig, followed by the two gardeners, came striding along as fast as his size and importance would let him. And when he came near the oak tree, Captain Bouldwig paused and drew a long breath, and looked at the prospect as if he thought the prospect ought to be highly gratified at having him to take notice of it. And then he struck the ground emphatically with his stick and summoned the head gardener. Hunt, said Captain Bouldwig. Yes, sir, said the gardener. Roll this place tomorrow morning. Do you hear, Hunt? Yes, sir. And take care that you keep this place in good order. Do you hear, Hunt? Yes, sir. And remind me to have a board done about trespassers and spring guns and all that sort of thing to keep the common people out. Do you hear, Hunt? Do you hear? I'll not forget it, sir. I beg your pardon, sir, said the other man, advancing with his hand to his hat. Well, Wilkins, what's the matter with you? said Captain Bouldwig. I beg your pardon, sir, but I think there have been trespassers here today. Ha! said the captain, scowling around him. Yes, sir, they have been dining here, I think, sir. Why, damn their audacity so they have, said Captain Bouldwig, as the crumbs and fragments that were strewn upon the grass met his eye. They have actually been devouring their food here. I wish I had the vagabonds here, said the captain, clenching the thick stick. I wish I had the vagabonds here, said the captain wrathfully. Beg your pardon, sir, said Wilkins, but— But what, eh? roared the captain. And following the timid glance of Wilkins, his eyes encountered the wheelbarrow and Mr. Pickwick. Who are you, you rascal, said the captain, administering several pokes to Mr. Pickwick's body with the thick stick? What's your name? Cold Punch, murmured Mr. Pickwick, as he sank to sleep again. What, demanded Captain Bouldwig, no reply. What did he say his name was, asked the captain? Punch, I think, sir, replied Wilkins. That's his impudence. That's his confounded impudence, said Captain Bouldwig. He's only feigning to be asleep now, said the captain, in a high passion. He's drunk. He's a drunken plebeian. Wheel him away, Wilkins. Wheel him away directly. Where shall I wheel him to, sir? inquired Wilkins with great timidity. Wheel him to the devil, replied Captain Bouldwig. Very well, sir, said Wilkins. Stay, said the captain. Wilkins stopped accordingly. Wheel him, said the captain, wheel him to the pound, and let us see whether he calls himself Punch when he comes to himself. He shall not bully me. He shall not bully me. Wheel him away. Away, Mr. Pickwick was wheeled in compliance with the superior's mandate, and the great Captain Bouldwig, swelling with indignation, proceeded on his walk. Inexpressible was the astonishment of the little party when they returned to find that Mr. Pickwick had disappeared and taken the wheelbarrow with him. It was the most mysterious and unaccountable thing that was ever heard of. For a lame man to have got upon his legs without any previous notice and walked off would have been most extraordinary. But when it came to his wheeling a heavy barrel before, and by way of amusement, it grew positively miraculous. They searched every nook and corner round, together and separately. They shouted, whistled, laughed, called, and all with the same result. Mr. Pickwick was not to be found. After some hours of fruitless search, they arrived at the unwelcome conclusion that they must go home without him. Meanwhile, Mr. Pickwick had been wheeled to the pound and safely deposited therein. Fast asleep in the wheelbarrow, to the immeasurable delight and satisfaction, not only of all the boys in the village, but three-fourths of the whole population who had gathered round in expectation of his waking. If their most intense gratification had been awakened by seeing him wheeled in, how many hundredfold was their joy increased when, after a few indistinct cries of, Sam, he sat up in the barrel, engaged with indescribable astonishment on the faces before him. A general shout was, of course, the signal of his having woke up and his involuntary inquiry of, What's the matter, occasioned another, louder than the first, if possible? Here's a game, roared the populace. Where am I? exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. In the pound, replied the mob. How came I here? What was I doing? Where was I brought from? Baldwig, Captain Baldwig, was the only reply. Let me out, cried Mr. Pickwick. Where's my servant? Where are my friends? You ain't got no friends, hurrah! Then there came a turnip, then a potato, and then an egg, with a few other little tokens of the playful disposition of the many-headed. How long this scene might have lasted, or how much Mr. Pickwick might have suffered, no one can tell, had not a carriage, which was driving swiftly by, suddenly pulled up. From once there descended Old Wardle and Sam Weller, the former of whom, in far less time than it takes to write it, if not to read it, had made his way to Mr. Pickwick's side and placed him in the vehicle, just as the latter had concluded the third and last round of a single combat with the town beetle. Run to the justices, cried a dozen voices. Ah, run away, said Mr. Weller, jumping up on the box. Give my compliments, Mr. Weller's compliments to the justice, and tell him I've spied his beetle, and that if he'll swear in a new one, I'll come back again tomorrow and spoil him. Drive on, Old Weller. I'll give directions for the commencement of an action for false imprisonment against this Captain Boldwig, directly I get to London, said Mr. Pickwick, as soon as the carriage turned out of the town. We were trespassing, it seems, said Wardle. I don't care, said Mr. Pickwick. I'll bring the action. No, you won't, said Wardle. I will bite, but as there was a humorous expression in Wardle's face, Mr. Pickwick checked himself and said, Why not? Because, said Old Wardle, half bursting with laughter, because they might turn on some of us, and say we had taken too much cold punch. Do what he would, a smile would come into Mr. Pickwick's face. The smile extended into a laugh, the laugh into a roar, the roar became general. So, to keep up their good humor, they stopped at the first roadside tavern they came to, and ordered a glass of brandy and water all round, with a magnum of extra strength for Mr. Samuel Weller. End of Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Showing how Dodson and Fogg were men of business, and their clerks men of pleasure, and how an affecting interview took place between Mr. Weller and his long-lost parent, showing also what choice spirits assembled at the Magpie and Stump, and what a capital chapter the next one will be. In the ground floor front of a dingy house, at the very farthest end of Freeman's Court Cornhill, sat the four clerks of Messers Dodson and Fogg, two of his majesty's attorneys of the Courts of King's Bench and Common Pleas at Westminster, and solicitors of the High Court of Chancery. The aforesaid clerks catching his favourable glimpses of Heaven's Light and Heaven's Sun in the course of their daily labours, as a man might hope to do, were he placed at the bottom of a reasonably deep well, and without the opportunity of perceiving the stars in the daytime, which the latter secluded situation affords. The clerk's office of Messers Dodson and Fogg was a dark, moldy, earthy-smelling room, with a high, wainscotted partition to screen the clerks from the vulgar gaze, a couple of old wooden chairs, a very loud ticking clock, an almanac and umbrella stand, a row of hat pegs and a few shelves, on which were deposited several ticketed bundles of dirty papers, some old deal boxes with paper labels, and sundry decayed stone ink bottles of various shapes and sizes. There was a glass door leading into the passage, which formed the entrance to the Court, and on the outer side of this glass door, Mr. Pickwick, closely followed by Sam Weller, presented himself on the Friday morning, succeeding the occurrence of which a faithful narration is given in the last chapter. Come in, can't you? cried a voice from behind the partition, and replied to Mr. Pickwick's gentle tap at the door, and Mr. Pickwick and Sam entered accordingly. Mr. Dodson or Mr. Fogg at home, sir, inquired Mr. Pickwick, gently advancing, had in hand towards the partition. Mr. Dodson ain't at home when Mr. Fogg's particularly engaged, replied the voice, and at the same time the head to which the voice belonged, with a pen behind its ear, looked over the partition, and at Mr. Pickwick. It was a ragged head, the sandy hair of which, scrupulously parted on one side and flattened down with pomadom, was twisted into little semicircular tails, run a flat face, ornamented with a pair of small eyes, and garnished with a very dirty shirt collar and a rusty black stock. Mr. Dodson ain't at home when Mr. Fogg's particularly engaged, said the man to whom the head belonged. When will Mr. Dodson be back, sir? inquired Mr. Pickwick. Can't say. Will it be long before Mr. Fogg is disengaged, sir? Don't know. Here the man proceeded to mend his pen with great deliberation, while another clerk who was mixing a silet's powder under cover of the lid of his desk laughed approvingly. I think I'll wait, said Mr. Pickwick. There was no reply. So Mr. Pickwick sat down unbidden and listened to the loud ticking of the clock and the murmured conversation of the clerks. That was a game, wasn't it? said one of the gentlemen in a brown coat and brass buttons, inky drabs and bluechers, at the conclusion of some inaudible relation of his previous evening's adventures. Devilish good, devilish good, said the silet's powder man. Tom Cummins was in the chair, said the man with the brown coat. It was half past four when I got to Summers Town, and then it was so uncommon and lushy that I couldn't find the place where the latchkey went in and was obliged to knock up the old woman. I say I wonder what old Fogg had say if he knew it. I should get the sack, I suppose, eh? At this humorous notion all the clerks laughed in concert. There was such a game with Fogg here this morning, said the man in the brown coat, while Jack was upstairs sorting the papers, and you two were gone to the stamp office. Fogg was down here, opening the letters. When that chap, as we issued the writ against, at Camberwell, you know, came in, what's his name again? Ramsay, said the clerk who had spoken to Mr. Pickwick. Ah, Ramsay, a precious, seedy-looking customer. Well, sir, says old Fogg, looking at him very fierce, you know his way. Well, sir, have you come to settle? Yes, I have, sir, said Ramsay, putting his hand in his pocket and bringing out the money. The debt's two pound ten, and the cost's three pound five, and here it is, sir. And he sighed like bricks as he lugged out the money, then up in a bit of blotting paper. Old Fogg looked first at the money, and then at him, and then he coughed in his rum way, so that I knew something was coming. You don't know there's a declaration filed, which increases the costs materially, I suppose, said Fogg. You don't say that, sir, said Ramsay, starting back. The time was only out last night, sir. I do say it, though, said Fogg. I clerk's just gone to file it. Hasn't Mr. Jackson gone to file that declaration and Bowman and Ramsay, Mr. Wicks? Of course, I said yes, and then Fogg coughed again and looked at Ramsay. My God, said Ramsay, and here have I nearly driven myself mad scraping this money together in all to no purpose. None at all, said Fogg coolly, so you had better go back and scrape some more together and bring it here in time. I can't get it, my God, said Ramsay, striking the desk with his fist. Don't bully me, sir, said Fogg, getting into a passion on purpose. I'm not bullying you, sir, said Ramsay. You are, said Fogg. Get out, sir. Get out of this office, sir, and come back, sir, when you know how to behave yourself. Well, Ramsay tried to speak, but Fogg wouldn't let him, so he put the money in his pocket and sneaked out. The door was scarcely shut when Old Fogg turned round to me with a sweet smile on his face and drew the declaration out of his coat pocket. Here, wicks, says Fogg, take a cab and go down to the temple as quick as you can and file that. The costs are quite safe, for he's a steady man with a large family at a salary of five and twenty shillings a week. And if he gives us a warrant of attorney as he must in the end, I know his employers will see it paid. So we may as well get all we can out of him, Mr. Wicks. It's a Christian act to do it, Mr. Wicks, for with his large family and small income he'll be all the better for a good lesson against getting into debt. Won't he, Mr. Wicks, won't he? And he smiled so good-naturedly as he went away that it was delightful to see him. He is a capital man of business, said Wicks, in a tone of the deepest admiration. Capital, isn't he? The other three cordially subscribed to this opinion and the anecdote afforded the most unlimited satisfaction. Nice men these here, sir, whispered Mr. Weller to his master, very nice notion of fun they has, sir. Mr. Pickwick nodded ascent and coughed to attract the attention of the young gentleman behind the partition, who, having now relaxed their minds by a little conversation among themselves, condescended to take some notice of the stranger. I wonder whether Fogg's disengaged now, said Jackson. I'll see, said Wicks, dismounting leisurely from his stool. What name shall I tell Mr. Fogg? Pickwick replied the illustrious subject of these memoirs. Mr. Jackson departed upstairs on his errand and immediately returned with a message that Mr. Fogg would see Mr. Pickwick in five minutes and, having delivered it, returned again to his desk. What did he say his name was, whispered Wicks? Pickwick, replied Jackson, is the defendant in Bardell and Pickwick. A sudden scraping of feet, mingled with the sound of suppressed laughter, was heard from behind the partition. There were twigging of you, sir, whispered Mr. Weller. Twigging of me, Sam, replied Mr. Pickwick, what do you mean by twigging me? Mr. Weller replied by pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, and Mr. Pickwick, on looking up, became sensible of the pleasing fact that all the four clerks, with countenances expressive of the utmost amusement and with their heads thrust over the wooden screen, were minutely inspecting the figure and general appearance of the supposed trifler with female hearts and disturber of female happiness. On his looking up the row of heads suddenly disappeared, and the sound of pens traveling at a furious rate over paper immediately succeeded. A sudden ring at the bell which hung in the office summoned Mr. Jackson to the apartment of Fogg, from once he came back to say that he, Fogg, was ready to see Mr. Pickwick if he would step upstairs. Upstairs Mr. Pickwick did step accordingly, leaving Sam Weller below. The room door of the one pair back, bore inscribed in legible characters the imposing words Mr. Fogg, and having tapped there at, and been desired to come in, Jackson ushered Mr. Pickwick into the presence. As Mr. Dodson in, inquired Mr. Fogg, just come in, sir, replied Jackson. Ask him to step here. Yes, sir. Exit Jackson. Take a seat, sir, said Fogg. There is the paper, sir. My partner will be here directly, and we can converse about this matter, sir. Mr. Pickwick took a seat and the paper, but instead of reading the latter, peeped over the top of it, and took a survey of the man of business, who was an elderly, pimply-faced, vegetable diet sort of man, in a black coat, dark mixture trousers, and small black gaiters. A kind of being who seemed to be in a sensile part of the desk at which he was writing, and to have as much thought or feeling. After a few minutes' silence Mr. Dodson, a plump, portly, stern looking man, with a loud voice, appeared, and the conversation commenced. This is Mr. Pickwick, said Fogg. Ah, you were the defendant, sir, in Bardell and Pickwick, said Dodson. I am, sir, replied Mr. Pickwick. Well, sir, said Dodson, and what do you propose? Ah, said Fogg, thrusting his hands into his trousers' pockets and throwing himself back in his chair. What do you propose, Mr. Pickwick? Hush, Fogg, said Dodson. Let me hear what Mr. Pickwick has to say. I came, gentlemen, said Mr. Pickwick, gazing placidly on the two partners. I came here, gentlemen, to express the surprise with which I received your letter of the other day, and to inquire what grounds of action you can have against me. Grounds of— Fogg had ejaculated this much when he was stopped by Dodson. Mr. Fogg, said Dodson, I am going to speak. I beg your pardon, Mr. Dodson, said Fogg. For the grounds of action, sir, continued Dodson, with moral elevation in his air. You will consult your own conscience and your own feelings. We, sir, we are guided entirely by the statement of our client. That statement, sir, may be true or it may be false. It may be credible or it may be incredible. But if it be true and if it be credible, I do not hesitate to say so that our grounds of action are strong and not to be shaken. You may be an unfortunate man, sir, or you may be a designing one. But if I were called upon as a juryman upon my oath, sir, to express an opinion of your conduct, sir, I do not hesitate to assert that I should have but one opinion about it. Here Dodson drew himself up with an air of offended virtue and looked at Fogg, who thrust his hands farther in his pockets, and nodding his head sagely, said, in a tone of the fullest concurrence, most certainly. Well, sir, said Mr. Pickwick, with considerable pain depicted in his countenance, you will permit me to assure you that I am a most unfortunate man so far as this case is concerned. I hope you are, sir, replied Dodson. I trust you may be, sir. If you are really innocent of what is laid to your charge, you are more unfortunate than I had believed any man could possibly be. What do you say, Mr. Fogg? I say precisely what you say, replied Fogg, with a smile of incredulity. The writ, sir, which commences the action, continued Dodson, was issued regularly. Mr. Fogg, where is the recipe book? Here it is, said Fogg, handing over a square book with a parchment cover. Here is the entry, resumed Dodson. Middle-sex, capious, Martha Bardell, widow, v. Samuel Pickwick damages fifteen hundred, Dodson and Fogg, for the plaintiff, August 28, 1827, all regular, sir, perfectly. Dodson coughed and looked at Fogg, who said perfectly, also, and then they both looked at Mr. Pickwick. I am to understand, then, said Mr. Pickwick, that it really is your intention to proceed with this action. Understand, sir, that you certainly may, replied Dodson, that something as near a smile as his importance would allow, and that the damages are actually laid at fifteen hundred pounds, said Mr. Pickwick. To which understanding you may add my assurance, that if we could have prevailed upon our client, they would have been laid at trouble the amount, sir, replied Dodson. I believe Mrs. Bardell specially said, however, observed Fogg, glancing at Dodson, that she would not compromise for a farthing less. Unquestionably, replied Dodson sternly, that the action was only just begun, and it wouldn't have done to let Mr. Pickwick compromise it, then, even if he had been so disposed. As you offer no terms, sir, said Dodson, displaying a slip of parchment in his right hand, and affectionately pressing a paper copy of it on Mr. Pickwick with his left. I had better serve you with a copy of this writ, sir. Here is the original, sir. Very well, gentlemen, very well, said Mr. Pickwick, rising in person and wrath at the same time. You shall hear from my solicitor, gentlemen. We shall be very happy to do so, said Fogg, rubbing his hands. Very, said Dodson, opening the door. And before I go, gentlemen, said the excited Mr. Pickwick, turning round on the landing, permit me to say that of all the disgraceful and rascally proceedings, stay, sir, stay, interposed Dodson, with great politeness. Mr. Jackson, Mr. Wicks. Sir, said the two clerks, appearing at the bottom of the stairs, I merely want you to hear what this gentleman says, replied Dodson. Pray go on, sir, disgraceful and rascally proceedings, I think you said. I did, said Mr. Pickwick, thoroughly roused. I said, sir, that of all the disgraceful and rascally proceedings that ever were attempted, this is the most so. I repeat it, sir. You hear that, Mr. Wicks, said Dodson. You won't forget these expressions, Mr. Jackson, said Fogg. Perhaps you would like to call us swindlers, sir, said Dodson. Pray do, sir, if you feel disposed, now pray do, sir. I do, said Mr. Pickwick, you are swindlers. Very good, said Dodson. You can hear down there, I hope, Mr. Wicks. Oh yes, sir, said Wicks. You had better come up a step or two higher if you can't, added Mr. Fogg. Go on, sir, do go on. You had better call us thieves, sir, or perhaps you would like to assault one of us. Pray do it, sir, if you would. We will not make the smallest resistance. Pray do it, sir. As Fogg put himself very temptingly within the reach of Mr. Pickwick's clenched fist, there is little doubt that that gentleman would have complied with his earnest entreaty. But for the interposition of Sam, who hearing the dispute emerged from the office, mounted the stairs and seized his master by the arm. You just come away, said Mr. Weller. Battledore and Shuttlecock's a very good game, when you ain't the Shuttlecock and two lawyers the Battledores, in which case he gets too excited to be pleasant. Come away, sir. If you want to ease your mind by blowing up somebody, come out into the court and blow me up. But it's rather too expensive work to be carried on here. And without the slightest ceremony, Mr. Weller hauled his master down the stairs and down the court, and having safely deposited him in Cornhill, fell behind, prepared to follow with or so ever he should lead. Mr. Pickwick walked on abstractly, crossed opposite the mansion house, and bent his steps up cheap side. Sam began to wonder where they were going. When his master turned round and said, Sam, I will go immediately to Mr. Perkers. That's just exactly the weary place where you ought to have gone last night, sir, replied Mr. Weller. I think it is, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick. I know it is, said Mr. Weller. Well, well, Sam, replied Mr. Pickwick. We will go there at once. But first, as I have been rather ruffled, I should like a glass of brandy and water warm, Sam. Where can I have it, Sam? Mr. Weller's knowledge of London was extensive and peculiar. He replied without the slightest consideration. Second court on the right-hand side, last house but one on the same side the bay, take the box as stands in the first fireplace, because there ain't no leg in the middle of the table, which all the others has, and it's weary and convenient. Mr. Pickwick observed his valet's directions implicitly, and bidding Sam follow him, entered the tavern he had pointed out, where the hot brandy and water was spewing out, was speedily placed before him, while Mr. Weller, seated at a respectful distance, though at the same table with his master, was accommodated with a pint of porter. The room was one of a very homely description, and was apparently under the special patronage of stagecoachmen, for several gentlemen who had all the appearance of belonging to that learned profession were drinking and smoking in the different boxes. Among the number was one stout, red-faced, elderly man in particular, seated in an opposite box, who attracted Mr. Pickwick's attention. The stout man was smoking with great vehemence, but between every half-dozen puffs he took his pipe from his mouth, and looked first at Mr. Weller and then at Mr. Pickwick. Then he would bury in a quart pot, as much of his countenance as the dimensions of the quart pot admitted of its receiving, and take another look at Sam and Mr. Pickwick. Then he would take another half-dozen puffs, with an error of profound meditation, and look at them again. At last the stout man, putting up his legs on the seat and leaning his back against the wall, began to puff at his pipe without leaving off at all, and to stare through the smoke at the newcomers, as if he had made up his mind to see the most he could of them. At first the evolutions of the stout man had escaped Mr. Weller's observation, but by degrees, as he saw Mr. Pickwick's eyes every now and then turning towards him, he began to gaze in the same direction, at the same time shading his eyes with his hand, as if he partially recognized the object before him, and wished to make quite sure of its identity. His doubts were speedily dispelled, however, for the stout man, having blown a thick cloud from his pipe, a hoarse voice like some strange effort of ventriloquism emerged from beneath the capacious shawls which muffled his throat and chest, and slowly uttered these sounds. Why, Sammy, who's that Sam, inquired Mr. Pickwick? Why, I wouldn't have believed it, sir, replied Mr. Weller, with astonished eyes. That's the olden. Old one, said Mr. Pickwick, what old one. My father, sir, replied Mr. Weller, how are you, my ancient? And with this beautiful ebullition of filial affection, Mr. Weller made room on the seat beside him for the stout man, who advanced pipe in mouth and pot in hand to greet him. Why, Sammy, said the father, I haven't seen you for two years and better. Nor more you have, old Codger, replied the son, how's mother-in-law? Why, I'll tell you what, Sammy, said Mr. Weller's senior, with much solemnity in his manner. There never was a nicer woman as a witter than that air's second winter of mine. A sweet creeders she was, Sammy. All I can say on her now is that as she was such an uncommon pleasant witter, it's a great pity she ever changed her condition. She don't act as a vipe, Sammy. Don't she, though? inquired Mr. Weller, junior. The elder Mr. Weller shook his head as he replied with a sigh. I've done it once too often, Sammy. I've done it once too often. Take example by your father, my boy, and be very careful of witters all your life, especially if they've kept a public house, Sammy. Having delivered this parental advice with great pathos, Mr. Weller's senior refilled his pipe from a tin box he carried in his pocket, and lighting his fresh pipe from the ashes of the old one, commenced smoking at a great rate. Beg your pardon, sir, he said, renewing the subject and addressing Mr. Pickwick after a considerable pause. Nothing personal, I hope, sir. I hope you ain't got a witter, sir. Not I, replied Mr. Pickwick, laughing. And while Mr. Pickwick laughed, Sam Weller informed his parent in a whisper of the relation in which he stood towards that gentleman. Beg your pardon, sir, said Mr. Weller, senior, taking off his hat. I hope you've no fault. The find was Sammy, sir. None whatever, said Mr. Pickwick. We're glad to hear it, sir, replied the old man. I took a good deal of pains with his education, sir. Let him run in the streets when he was very young and chipped for his self. It's the only way to make a boy sharp, sir. Rather a dangerous process, I should imagine, said Mr. Pickwick with a smile. And not a very sure one, neither, added Mr. Weller. I got regularly done the other day. No, said his father. I did, said the son. And he proceeded to relate, in as few words as possible, how he had fallen a ready dupe to the stratagems of Job Trotter. Mr. Weller, senior, listened to the tale with most profound attention, and at its termination said, Weren't one of those chaps slim and tall with long hair and the gift of the gab weary galloping? Mr. Pickwick did not quite understand the last item of description, but comprehending the first said, Yes, at a venture. Tothers of black-haired chap and mulberry livery with a weary large head? Yes, yes he is, said Mr. Pickwick and Sam, with great earnestness. Then I know where they are, and that's all about it, said Mr. Weller. They're at Ipswich safe enough them to. No, said Mr. Pickwick. Fact, said Mr. Weller. And I'll tell you how I know it. I work in Ipswich coach now and then for a friend of mine. I work down the weary day, art of the night, as you caught the rheumatic, and at the black boy at Chelmsford, the very place they'd come to. I took them up right through to Ipswich, where the man's servant, him and the mulberries, told me there was a going to put up for a long time. I'll follow him, said Mr. Pickwick. We may as well see Ipswich as any other place. I'll follow him. You're quite certain it was them, Governor, inquired Mr. Weller, Junior. Quite, Sammy, quite, replied his father. For their appearance is very singular. Besides that air, I wanted to see the gentleman so familiar with his servant, and more than that, as they sat in the front right behind the box, I heard them laughing and saying as how they'd done old fireworks. Old who? said Mr. Pickwick. Old fireworks, sir, by which I've no doubt they meant you, sir. There is nothing positively vile or atrocious in the appellation of old fireworks, but still it is by no means a respectful or flattering designation. The recollection of all the wrongs he had sustained at Jingle's hands had crowded on Mr. Pickwick's mind the moment Mr. Weller began to speak. It wanted but a feather to turn the scale, and old fireworks did it. I'll follow him, said Mr. Pickwick with an emphatic blow on the table. I shall work down to Ipswich the day after tomorrow, sir, said Mr. Weller the elder, from the bull and white chapel, and if you really mean to go, you'd better go with me. So we had, said Mr. Pickwick, very true. I can write to Burry and tell them to meet me at Ipswich. We will go with you, but don't hurry away, Mr. Weller. Won't you take anything? You're very good, sir, replied Mr. W., stopping short. Perhaps a small glass of brandy to drink your health and success to Sammy, sir, wouldn't be a miss. Certainly not, replied Mr. Pickwick. A glass of brandy here. The brandy was broad, and Mr. Weller, after pulling his hair to Mr. Pickwick and nodding to Sam, jerked it down his capacious throat as if it had been a small thimbleful. Well done, Father, said Sam. Take care, old fellow, you'll have a touch of your old complaint, the gout. I found a sovereign cure for that, Sammy, said Mr. Weller, setting down the glass. A sovereign cure for the gout, said Mr. Pickwick, hastily producing his notebook. What is it? The gout, sir, replied Mr. Weller. The gout is a complaint as arises from too much ease and comfort. If ever you're attacked with the gout, sir, just you marry a witter, as has got a good loud voice, with a decent notion of using it, and you'll never have the gout again. It's a capital prescription, sir. I take it regular, and I can warrant it to drive away any illness as is caused by too much jollity. Having imparted this valuable secret, Mr. Weller drained his glass once more, produced a labored wink, sighed deeply, and slowly retired. Well, what do you think of what your father says, Sam, inquired Mr. Pickwick with a smile? Think, sir, replied Mr. Weller. Why, I think, he's the victim of cannubiality, as Bluebeard's domestic chaplain said, but the tear of pity, when he buried him. There was no replying to this very apposite conclusion, and therefore, Mr. Pickwick, after settling the reckoning, resumed his walk to graze in. By the time he reached its secluded groves, however, eight o'clock had struck, and the unbroken stream of gentlemen in muddy high loaves, soiled white hats and rusty apparel, who were pouring towards the different avenues of egress, warned him that the majority of the offices had closed for that day. After climbing two pairs of steep and dirty stairs, he found his anticipations were realized. Mr. Perker's outer door was closed, and the dead silence which followed Mr. Weller's repeated kicks thereat, announced that the officials had retired from business for the night. This is pleasant, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick. I shouldn't lose an hour in seeing him. I shall not be able to get one week of sleep tonight. I know, unless I have the satisfaction of reflecting that I have confided this matter to a professional man. Here's an old woman coming upstairs, sir, replied Mr. Weller. Perhaps she knows where we can find somebody. Hello, old lady. Where's Mr. Perker's people? Mr. Perker's people, said a thin, miserable looking old woman, stopping to recover breath after the ascent of the staircase. Mr. Perker's people's gone, and I'm going to do the office out. Are you Mr. Perker's servant, inquired Mr. Pickwick? I am Mr. Perker's laundress, replied the woman. Ah, said Mr. Pickwick, half aside to Sam. It's a curious circumstance, Sam, that they call the old women in these ends laundresses. I wonder what that's for. Because they have a mortal aversion to washing anything, I suppose, sir, replied Mr. Weller. I shouldn't wonder, said Mr. Pickwick, looking at the old woman, whose appearance, as well as the condition of the office, which she had by this time opened, indicated a rooted antipathy to the application of soap and water. Do you know where I can find Mr. Perker, my good woman? No, I don't, replied the old woman gruffly. He's out of town now. That's unfortunate, said Mr. Pickwick. Where's his clerk, do you know? Yes, I know where he is, but he won't thank me for telling you, replied the laundress. I have very particular business with him, said Mr. Pickwick. Won't it do in the morning, said the woman? Not so well, replied Mr. Pickwick. Well, said the old woman, if it was anything very particular, I was to say where he was, so I suppose there's no harm in telling. If you just go to the Magpie and Stump, and ask at the bar for Mr. Loudon, they'll show you into him, and he's Mr. Perker's clerk. With this direction, and having been further more informed, that the hostile re-enquestion was situated in a court, happy in the double advantage of being in the vicinity of Clare Market, and closely approximating to the back of New Inn, Mr. Pickwick and Sam descended the rickety staircase in safety, and issued forth in quest to the Magpie and Stump. This favored tavern, sacred to the evening orgies of Mr. Loudon and his companions, was what ordinary people would designate a public house. That the landlord was a man of money-making turn, was sufficiently testified by the fact of a small bulkhead beneath the taproom window, in size and shape not unlike a sedan chair, being underlet to a mender of shoes, and that he was a being of a philanthropic mind was evident from the protection he afforded to a pie-man, who vended his delicacies without fear of interruption on the very doorstep. In the lower windows, which were decorated with curtains of a saffron hue, dangled two or three printed cards, bearing reference to Devonshire Cider and Dancex Bruce, while a large blackboard, announcing in white letters to an enlightened public that there were five hundred thousand barrels of double stout in the cellars of the establishment, left the mind in a state of not unpleasing doubt and uncertainty as to the precise direction in the bowels of the earth in which this mighty cavern might be supposed to extend. When we add that the weather-beaten signboard bore the half obliterated semblance of a magpie, intently eyeing a crooked streak of brown paint which the neighbors had been taught from infancy to consider as the stump, we have said all that need be said of the exterior of the edifice. On Mr. Pickwick's presenting himself at the bar, an elderly female emerged from behind the screen therein and presented herself before him. Is Mr. Loudon here, ma'am? inquired Mr. Pickwick. Yes, he is, sir, replied the landlady. Here, Charlie, show the gentleman into Mr. Loudon. The gentleman can't go in just now, said a shambling pot boy with a red head, because Mr. Loudon's a singing a comic song and he'll put him out. He'll be done directly, sir. The red-headed pot boy had scarcely finished speaking when a most unanimous hammering of tables and jingling of glasses announced that the song had that instant terminated, and Mr. Pickwick, after desiring Sam to solace himself in the tap, suffered himself to be conducted into the presence of Mr. Loudon. At the announcement of a gentleman to speak to you, sir, a puffy-faced young man, who filled the chair at the head of the table, looked with some surprise in the direction from once the voice proceeded, and the surprise seemed to be by no means diminished when his eyes rested on an individual whom he had never seen before. I beg your pardon, sir, said Mr. Pickwick, and I am very sorry to disturb the other gentleman, too, but I come on very particular business, and if you will suffer me to detain you at this end of the room for five minutes I should be very much obliged to you. The puffy-faced young man rose, and drawing a chair close to Mr. Pickwick in an obscure corner of the room listened attentively to his tale of woe. Ah, he said, when Mr. Pickwick had concluded, Dodson and Fogg, sharp practice theirs, capital men of business, Dodson and Fogg, sir. Mr. Pickwick admitted the sharp practice of Dodson and Fogg, and Loudon resumed. Perker ain't in town, and he won't be neither before the end of next week. But if you want the action defended and will leave the copy with me, I can do all that's needful till he comes back. That's exactly what I came here for, said Mr. Pickwick, handing over the document. If anything particular occurs, you can write to me at the post office, Ipswich. That's all right, replied Mr. Perker's clerk, and then seeing Mr. Pickwick's eye, wandering curiously towards the table, he added, Will you join us for half an hour or so? We are capital company here tonight. There's Sam Kinnon-Greens managing clerk, and Smithers and Price's chancery, and Pimkin and Thomas's Outer Doors, sings a capital song he does, and Jack Bamber, and ever so many more. You'll come out of the country, I suppose. Would you like to join us? Mr. Pickwick could not resist so tempting an opportunity of studying human nature. He suffered himself to be led to the table, where, after having been introduced to the company in due form, he was accommodated with a seat near the chairman and called for a glass of his favorite beverage. A profound silence, quite contrary to Mr. Pickwick's expectations, succeeded. You don't find this sort of thing disagreeable, I hope, sir, said his right-hand neighbor, a gentleman in a checked shirt and mosaic studs with a cigar in his mouth? Not in the least, replied Mr. Pickwick, I like it very much, although I am no smoker myself. I should be very sorry to say I wasn't, and opposed another gentleman on the opposite side of the table. It's bored and lodgings to me is smoke. Mr. Pickwick glanced at the speaker, and thought that if it were washing, too, it would be all the better. Here there was another pause. Mr. Pickwick was a stranger, and his coming had evidently cast a damp upon the party. Mr. Grundy's going to oblige the company with a song, said the chairman. No, he ain't, said Mr. Grundy. Why not, said the chairman. Because he can't, said Mr. Grundy. You'd better say he won't, replied the chairman. Well, then he won't, retorted Mr. Grundy. Mr. Grundy's positive refusal to gratify the company occasioned another silence. Well, anybody in liveness, said the chairman, despondingly. Why don't you in liveness yourself, Mr. Chairman, said a young man, with a whisker, a squint, and an open-shirt collar, dirty, from the bottom of the table. Here, here, said the smoking gentleman in the mosaic jewelry. Because I only know one song, and I have sung it already, and it's a fine of glasses round to sing the same song twice in a night, replied the chairman. This was an unanswerable reply, and silence prevailed again. I have been to-night, gentlemen, said Mr. Pickwick, hoping to start a subject which all the company could take apart in discussing. I have been to-night in a place which you all know very well doubtless, but which I have not been in for some years and know very little of. I mean, graze in, gentlemen, curious little nooks in a great place like London these old ins are. By joves of the chairman, whispering across the table to Mr. Pickwick, you have hit upon something that one of us at least would talk upon forever. You'll draw old Jack Bamber out. He was never heard to talk about anything else but the ins, and he has lived alone in them till he's half-crazy. The individual to whom Loudon eluded was a little yellow, high-shouldered man whose countenance from his habit of stooping forward when silent Mr. Pickwick had not observed before. He wondered, though, when the old man raised his shriveled face and bent his gray eye upon him with a keen, inquiring look, that such remarkable features could have escaped his attention for a moment. There was a fixed, grim smile perpetually on his countenance. He leaned his chin on a long, skinny hand with nails of extraordinary length, and as he inclined his head to one side and looked keenly out from beneath his ragged gray eyebrows, there was a strange wild slinus in his leer, quite repulsive to behold. This was the figure that now started forward and burst into an animated torrent of words. As this chapter has been a long one, however, and as the old man was a remarkable personage, it will be more respectful to him and more convenient to us to let him speak for himself in a fresh one.