[Illustration]
_The First Day's Journey, and the First Evening's Adventures;
with their Consequences_
That punctual servant of all work, the sun, had just risen, and begun
to strike a light on the morning of the thirteenth of May, one thousand
eight hundred and twenty-seven, when Mr. Samuel Pickwick burst like
another sun from his slumbers, threw open his chamber window, and
looked out upon the world beneath. Goswell Street was at his feet,
Goswell Street was on his right hand--as far as the eye could reach,
Goswell Street extended on his left; and the opposite side of Goswell
Street was over the way. "Such," thought Mr. Pickwick, "are the narrow
views of those philosophers who, content with examining the things
that lie before them, look not to the truths which are hidden beyond.
As well might I be content to gaze on Goswell Street for ever, without
one effort to penetrate to the hidden countries which on every side
surround it." And having given vent to this beautiful reflection, Mr.
Pickwick proceeded to put himself into his clothes, and his clothes
into his portmanteau. Great men are seldom over-scrupulous in the
arrangement of their attire; the operation of shaving, dressing, and
coffee-imbibing was soon performed: and in another hour, Mr. Pickwick,
with his portmanteau in his hand, his telescope in his great-coat
pocket, and his note-book in his waistcoat, ready for the reception
of any discoveries worthy of being noted down, had arrived at the
coach-stand in St. Martin's-le-Grand.
"Cab!" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Here you are, sir," shouted a strange specimen of the human race,
in a sackcloth coat, and apron of the same, who with a brass label
and number round his neck, looked as if he were catalogued in some
collection of rarities. This was the waterman. "Here you are, sir.
Now, then, fust cab!" And the first cab having been fetched from the
public-house, where he had been smoking his first pipe, Mr. Pickwick
and his portmanteau were thrown into the vehicle.
"Golden Cross," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Only a bob's vorth, Tommy," cried the driver, sulkily, for the
information of his friend the waterman, as the cab drove off.
"How old is that horse, my friend?" inquired Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his
nose with the shilling he had reserved for the fare.
"Forty-two," replied the driver, eyeing him askant.
"What!" ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand upon his note-book.
The driver reiterated his former statement. Mr. Pickwick looked very
hard at the man's face, but his features were immovable, so he noted
down the fact forthwith.
"And how long do you keep him out at a time?" inquired Mr. Pickwick,
searching for further information.
"Two or three veeks," replied the man.
"Weeks!" said Mr. Pickwick in astonishment--and out came the note-book
again.
"He lives at Pentonwil when he's at home," observed the driver coolly,
"but we seldom takes him home, on account of his veakness."
"On account of his weakness!" reiterated the perplexed Mr. Pickwick.
"He always falls down when he's took out o' the cab," continued the
driver, "but when he's in it, we bears him up wery tight, and takes him
in wery short, so as he can't wery well fall down; and we've got a pair
o' precious large wheels on, so ven he _does_ move, they run after
him, and he must go on--he can't help it."
Mr. Pickwick entered every word of this statement in his note-book,
with the view of communicating it to the club, as a singular instance
of the tenacity of life in horses, under trying circumstances. The
entry was scarcely completed when they reached the Golden Cross. Down
jumped the driver, and out got Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass,
and Mr. Winkle, who had been anxiously waiting the arrival of their
illustrious leader, crowded to welcome him.
[Illustration: _"Weeks!" said Mr. Pickwick in astonishment--and out
came the note-book again_]
"Here's your fare," said Mr. Pickwick, holding out the shilling to the
driver.
What was the learned man's astonishment, when that unaccountable person
flung the money on the pavement, and requested in figurative terms to
be allowed the pleasure of fighting him (Mr. Pickwick) for the amount!
"You are mad," said Mr. Snodgrass.
"Or drunk," said Mr. Winkle.
"Or both," said Mr. Tupman.
"Come on!" said the cab-driver, sparring away like clock-work. "Come
on--all four on you."
"Here's a lark!" shouted half-a-dozen hackney coachmen. "Go to vork,
Sam,"--and they crowded with great glee round the party.
"What's the row, Sam?" inquired one gentleman in black calico sleeves.
"Row!" replied the cabman, "what did he want my number for?"
"I didn't want your number," said the astonished Mr. Pickwick.
"What did you take it for, then?" inquired the cabman.
"I didn't take it," said Mr. Pickwick, indignantly.
"Would anybody believe," continued the cab-driver, appealing to the
crowd, "would anybody believe as an informer 'ud go about in a man's
cab, not only takin' down his number, but ev'ry word he says into the
bargain" (a light flashed upon Mr. Pickwick--it was the note-book).
"Did he though?" inquired another cabman.
"Yes, did he," replied the first; "and then arter aggerawatin' me to
assault him, gets three witnesses here to prove it. But I'll give it
him, if I've six months for it. Come on!" and the cabman dashed his hat
upon the ground, with a reckless disregard of his own private property,
and knocked Mr. Pickwick's spectacles off, and followed up the attack
with a blow on Mr. Pickwick's nose, and another on Mr. Pickwick's
chest, and a third in Mr. Snodgrass's eye, and a fourth, by way of
variety, in Mr. Tupman's waistcoat, and then danced into the road, and
then back again to the pavement, and finally dashed the whole temporary
supply of breath out of Mr. Winkle's body; and all in half-a-dozen
seconds.
"Where's an officer?" said Mr. Snodgrass.
"Put 'em under the pump," suggested a hot-pieman.
"You shall smart for this," gasped Mr. Pickwick.
"Informers!" shouted the crowd.
"Come on," cried the cabman, who had been sparring without cessation
the whole time.
The mob had hitherto been passive spectators of the scene, but as
the intelligence of the Pickwickians being informers was spread among
them, they began to canvass with considerable vivacity the propriety
of enforcing the heated pastry-vendor's proposition; and there is no
saying what acts of personal aggression they might have committed had
not the affray been unexpectedly terminated by the interposition of a
new comer.
[Illustration: _"What's the fun?" said a rather tall thin young man_]
"What's the fun?" said a rather tall thin young man, in a green coat,
emerging suddenly from the coach-yard.
"Informers!" shouted the crowd again.
"We are not," roared Mr. Pickwick, in a tone which, to any
dispassionate listener, carried conviction with it.
"Ain't you, though,--ain't you?" said the young man, appealing to
Mr. Pickwick, and making his way through the crowd by the infallible
process of elbowing the countenances of its component members.
That learned man in a few hurried words explained the real state of the
case.
"Come along, then," said he of the green coat, lugging Mr. Pickwick
after him by main force, and talking the whole way. "Here, No. 924,
take your fare, and take yourself off--respectable gentleman--know him
well--none of your nonsense--this way, sir,--where's your friends?--all
a mistake, I see--never mind--accidents will happen--best regulated
families--never say die--down upon your luck--pull him up--put that
in his pipe--like the flavour--damned rascals." And with a lengthened
string of similar broken sentences, delivered with extraordinary
volubility, the stranger led the way to the travellers' waiting-room,
whither he was closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and his disciples.
"Here, waiter!" shouted the stranger, ringing the bell with tremendous
violence, "glasses round,--brandy and water, hot and strong, and
sweet, and plenty,--eye damaged, sir? Waiter! raw beef-steak for the
gentleman's eye,--nothing like raw beef-steak for a bruise, sir;
cold lamp-post very good, but lamp-post inconvenient--damned odd
standing in the open street half-an-hour, with your eye against a
lamp-post--eh,--very good,--ha! ha!" And the stranger, without stopping
to take breath, swallowed at a draught full half-a-pint of the reeking
brandy and water, and flung himself into a chair with as much ease as
if nothing uncommon had occurred.
While his three companions were busily engaged in proffering their
thanks to their new acquaintance, Mr. Pickwick had leisure to examine
his costume and appearance.
He was about the middle height, but the thinness of his body, and the
length of his legs, gave him the appearance of being much taller.
The green coat had been a smart dress garment in the days of
swallow-tails, but had evidently in those times adorned a much shorter
man than the stranger, for the soiled and faded sleeves scarcely
reached to his wrists. It was buttoned closely up to his chin, at
the imminent hazard of splitting the back; and an old stock, without
a vestige of shirt collar, ornamented his neck. His scanty black
trousers displayed here and there those shiny patches which bespeak
long service, and were strapped very tightly over a pair of patched
and mended shoes, as if to conceal the dirty white stockings, which
were nevertheless distinctly visible. His long black hair escaped in
negligent waves from beneath each side of his old pinched-up hat;
and glimpses of his bare wrists might be observed between the tops
of his gloves and the cuffs of his coat sleeves. His face was thin
and haggard; but an indescribable air of jaunty impudence and perfect
self-possession pervaded the whole man.
Such was the individual on whom Mr. Pickwick gazed through his
spectacles (which he had fortunately recovered), and to whom he
proceeded, when his friends had exhausted themselves, to return in
chosen terms his warmest thanks for his recent assistance.
"Never mind," said the stranger, cutting the address very short, "said
enough,--no more; smart chap that cabman--handled his fives well;
but if I'd been your friend in the green jemmy--damn me--punch his
head,--'cod I would,--pig's whisper--pieman too,--no gammon."
This coherent speech was interrupted by the entrance of the Rochester
coachman, to announce that "The Commodore" was on the point of starting.
"Commodore!" said the stranger, starting up, "my coach,--place
booked,--one outside--leave you to pay for the brandy and water,--want
change for a five,--bad silver--Brummagem buttons--won't do--no
go--eh?" and he shook his head most knowingly.
Now it so happened that Mr. Pickwick and his three companions had
resolved to make Rochester their first halting-place too; and having
intimated to their new-found acquaintance that they were journeying to
the same city, they agreed to occupy the seat at the back of the coach,
where they could all sit together.
"Up with you," said the stranger, assisting Mr. Pickwick on to the roof
with so much precipitation as to impair the gravity of that gentleman's
deportment very materially.
"Any luggage, sir?" inquired the coachman.
"Who--I? Brown paper parcel here, that's all,--other luggage gone by
water,--packing cases, nailed up--big as houses--heavy, heavy, damned
heavy," replied the stranger, as he forced into his pocket as much as
he could of the brown paper parcel, which presented most suspicious
indications of containing one shirt and a handkerchief.
"Heads, heads--take care of your heads!" cried the loquacious stranger,
as they came out under the low archway, which in those days formed the
entrance to the coach-yard. "Terrible place--dangerous work--other
day--five children--mother--tall lady eating sandwiches--forgot the
arch--crash--knock--children look round--mother's head off--sandwich
in her hand--no mouth to put it in--head of a family off,
shocking, shocking! Looking at Whitehall, sir?--fine place--little
window--somebody else's head off there, eh, sir?--he didn't keep a
sharp look-out enough either--eh, sir, eh?"
"I am ruminating," said Mr. Pickwick, "on the strange mutability of
human affairs."
"Ah! I see--in at the palace door one day, out at the window the next.
Philosopher, sir?"
"An observer of human nature, sir," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Ah, so am I. Most people are when they've little to do and less to
get. Poet, sir?"
"My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a strong poetic turn," said Mr. Pickwick.
"So have I," said the stranger. "Epic poem,--ten thousand
lines--revolution of July--composed it on the spot--Mars by day, Apollo
by night,--bang the field-piece, twang the lyre."
"You were present at that glorious scene, sir?" said Mr. Snodgrass.
"Present! think I was;[3] fired a musket,--fired with an idea,--rushed
into wine shop--wrote it down--back again--whiz, bang--another
idea--wine shop again--pen and ink--back again--cut and slash--noble
time, sir. Sportsman, sir?" abruptly turning to Mr. Winkle.
[3] A remarkable instance of the prophetic force of Mr.
Jingle's imagination, this dialogue occurring in the year
1827, and the Revolution in 1830.
"A little, sir," replied that gentleman.
"Fine pursuit, sir,--fine pursuit.--Dogs, sir?"
"Not just now," said Mr. Winkle.
"Ah! you should keep dogs--fine animals--sagacious creatures--dog of my
own once--Pointer--surprising instinct--out shooting one day--entering
enclosure--whistled--dog stopped--whistled again--Ponto--no go; stock
still--called him--Ponto, Ponto--wouldn't move--dog transfixed--staring
at a board--looked up, saw an inscription--'Gamekeeper has orders to
shoot all dogs found in this enclosure'--wouldn't pass it--wonderful
dog--valuable dog that--very."
"Singular circumstance that," said Mr. Pickwick. "Will you allow me to
make a note of it?"
"Certainly, sir, certainly--hundred more anecdotes of the same
animal.--Fine girl, sir" (to Mr. Tracy Tupman, who had been bestowing
sundry anti-Pickwickian glances on a young lady by the roadside).
"Very!" said Mr. Tupman.
"English girls not so fine as Spanish--noble creatures--jet hair--black
eyes--lovely forms--sweet creatures--beautiful."
"You have been in Spain, sir?" said Mr. Tracy Tupman.
"Lived there--ages."
"Many conquests, sir?" inquired Mr. Tupman.
"Conquests! Thousands. Don Bolaro Fizzgig--Grandee--only
daughter--Donna Christina--splendid creature--loved me to
distraction--jealous father--high-souled daughter--handsome
Englishman--Donna Christina in despair--prussic acid--stomach pump in
my portmanteau--operation performed--old Bolaro in ecstasies--consent
to our union--join hands and floods of tears--romantic story--very."
"Is the lady in England now, sir?" inquired Mr. Tupman, on whom the
description of her charms had produced a powerful impression.
"Dead, sir--dead," said the stranger, applying to his right eye the
brief remnant of a very old cambric handkerchief. "Never recovered the
stomach pump--undermined constitution--fell a victim."
"And her father?" inquired the poetic Snodgrass.
"Remorse and misery," replied the stranger. "Sudden disappearance--talk
of the whole city--search made everywhere--without success--public
fountain in the great square suddenly ceased playing--weeks
elapsed--still a stoppage--workman employed to clean it--water drawn
off--father-in-law discovered sticking head first in the main pipe,
with a full confession in his right boot--took him out, and the
fountain played away again, as well as ever."
"Will you allow me to note that little romance down, sir?" said Mr.
Snodgrass, deeply affected.
"Certainly, sir, certainly,--fifty more if you like to hear
'em--strange life mine--rather curious history--not extraordinary, but
singular."
In this strain, with an occasional glass of ale, by way of parenthesis,
when the coach changed horses, did the stranger proceed, until they
reached Rochester bridge, by which time the note-books, both of Mr.
Pickwick and Mr. Snodgrass, were completely filled with selections from
his adventures.
"Magnificent ruin!" said Mr. Augustus Snodgrass, with all the poetic
fervour that distinguished him, when they came in sight of the fine old
castle.
"What a study for an antiquarian!" were the very words which fell from
Mr. Pickwick's mouth, as he applied his telescope to his eye.
"Ah! fine place," said the stranger, "glorious pile--frowning
walls--tottering arches--dark nooks--crumbling staircases--Old
cathedral too--earthy smell--pilgrims' feet worn away the old
steps--little Saxon doors--confessionals like money-takers' boxes at
theatres--queer customers those monks--Popes, and Lord Treasurers,
and all sorts of old fellows, with great red faces, and broken noses,
turning up every day--buff jerkins too--matchlocks--Sarcophagus--fine
place--old legends too--strange stories: capital;" and the stranger
continued to soliloquise until they reached the Bull Inn, in the High
Street, where the coach stopped.
"Do you remain here, sir?" inquired Mr. Nathaniel Winkle.
"Here--not I--but you'd better--good house--nice beds--Wright's next
house, dear--very dear--half-a-crown in the bill if you look at the
waiter--charge you more if you dine at a friend's than they would if
you dined in the coffee-room--rum fellows--very."
Mr. Winkle turned to Mr. Pickwick, and murmured a few words; a whisper
passed from Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Snodgrass, from Mr. Snodgrass to Mr.
Tupman, and nods of assent were exchanged. Mr. Pickwick addressed the
stranger.
"You rendered us a very important service this morning, sir," said he,
"will you allow us to offer a slight mark of our gratitude by begging
the favour of your company at dinner?"
"Great pleasure--not presume to dictate, but broiled fowl and
mushrooms--capital thing! what time?"
"Let me see," replied Mr. Pickwick, referring to his watch, "it is now
nearly three. Shall we say five?"
"Suit me excellently," said the stranger, "five precisely--till
then--care of yourselves;" and lifting the pinched-up hat a few inches
from his head, and carelessly replacing it very much on one side, the
stranger, with half the brown paper parcel sticking out of his pocket,
walked briskly up the yard, and turned into the High Street.
"Evidently a traveller in many countries, and a close observer of men
and things," said Mr. Pickwick.
"I should like to see his poem," said Mr. Snodgrass.
"I should like to have seen that dog," said Mr. Winkle.
Mr. Tupman said nothing; but he thought of Donna Christina, the stomach
pump, and the fountain; and his eyes filled with tears.
A private sitting-room having been engaged, bed-rooms inspected, and
dinner ordered, the party walked out to view the city and adjoining
neighbourhood.
We do not find, from a careful perusal of Mr. Pickwick's notes on
the four towns, Stroud, Rochester, Chatham, and Brompton, that his
impressions of their appearance differ in any material point from
those of other travellers who have gone over the same ground. His
general description is easily abridged.
"The principal productions of these towns," says Mr. Pickwick, "appear
to be soldiers, sailors, Jews, chalk, shrimps, officers, and dockyard
men. The commodities chiefly exposed for sale in the public streets are
marine stores, hard-bake, apples, flat-fish, and oysters. The streets
present a lively and animated appearance, occasioned chiefly by the
conviviality of the military. It is truly delightful to a philanthropic
mind, to see these gallant men staggering along under the influence of
an overflow, both of animal and ardent spirits; more especially when we
remember that the following them about, and jesting with them, affords
a cheap and innocent amusement for the boy population. Nothing (adds
Mr. Pickwick) can exceed their good humour. It was but the day before
my arrival that one of them had been most grossly insulted in the house
of a publican. The bar-maid had positively refused to draw him any more
liquor; in return for which he had (merely in playfulness) drawn his
bayonet, and wounded the girl in the shoulder. And yet this fine fellow
was the very first to go down to the house next morning, and express
his readiness to overlook the matter, and forget what had occurred.
"The consumption of tobacco in these towns (continues Mr. Pickwick)
must be very great: and the smell which pervades the streets must be
exceedingly delicious to those who are extremely fond of smoking. A
superficial traveller might object to the dirt, which is their leading
characteristic; but to those who view it as an indication of traffic
and commercial prosperity, it is truly gratifying."
Punctual to five o'clock came the stranger, and shortly afterwards the
dinner. He had divested himself of his brown paper parcel, but had made
no alteration in his attire, and was, if possible, more loquacious than
ever.
"What's that?" he inquired, as the waiter removed one of the covers.
"Soles, sir."
"Soles--ah!--capital fish--all come from London--stage-coach
proprietors get up political dinners--carriage of soles--dozens of
baskets--cunning fellows. Glass of wine, sir?"
"With pleasure," said Mr. Pickwick, and the stranger took wine, first
with him, and then with Mr. Snodgrass, and then with Mr. Tupman, and
then with Mr. Winkle, and then with the whole party together, almost as
rapidly as he talked.
"Devil of a mess on the staircase, waiter," said the stranger. "Forms
going up--carpenters coming down--lamps, glasses, harps. What's going
forward?"
"Ball, sir," said the waiter.
"Assembly, eh?"
"No, sir, not Assembly, sir. Ball for the benefit of a charity, sir."
"Many fine women in this town, do you know, sir?" inquired Mr. Tupman,
with great interest.
"Splendid--capital. Kent, sir--everybody knows Kent--apples, cherries,
hops, and women. Glass of wine, sir?"
"With great pleasure," replied Mr. Tupman. The stranger filled, and
emptied.
"I should very much like to go," said Mr. Tupman, resuming the subject
of the ball, "very much."
"Tickets at the bar, sir," interposed the waiter; "half a guinea each,
sir."
Mr. Tupman again expressed an earnest wish to be present at the
festivity, but meeting with no response in the darkened eye of Mr.
Snodgrass, or the abstracted gaze of Mr. Pickwick, he applied himself
with great interest to the port wine and dessert, which had just been
placed on the table. The waiter withdrew, and the party were left to
enjoy the cosy couple of hours succeeding dinner.
"Beg your pardon, sir," said the stranger, "bottle stands--pass it
round--way of the sun--through the button-hole--no heeltaps," and he
emptied his glass, which he had filled about two minutes before, and
poured out another, with the air of a man who was used to it.
The wine was passed, and a fresh supply ordered. The visitor talked,
the Pickwickians listened. Mr. Tupman felt every moment more disposed
for the ball. Mr. Pickwick's countenance glowed with an expression of
universal philanthropy, and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass fell fast
asleep.
"They're beginning up-stairs," said the stranger--"hear the
company--fiddles tuning--now the harp--there they go." The various
sounds which found their way down-stairs announced the commencement of
the first quadrille.
"How I should like to go," said Mr. Tupman again.
"So should I," said the stranger,--"confounded luggage--heavy
smacks--nothing to go in--odd, an't it?"
Now general benevolence was one of the leading features of the
Pickwickian theory, and no one was more remarkable for the zealous
manner in which he observed so noble a principle than Mr. Tracy Tupman.
The number of instances recorded on the Transactions of the Society,
in which that excellent man referred objects of charity to the houses
of other members for left-off garments, or pecuniary relief, is almost
incredible.
"I should be very happy to lend you a change of apparel for the
purpose," said Mr. Tracy Tupman, "but you are rather slim, and I am----"
"Rather fat--grown up Bacchus--cut the leaves--dismounted from the tub,
and adopted kersey, eh?--not double distilled, but double milled--ha!
ha! pass the wine."
Whether Mr. Tupman was somewhat indignant at the peremptory tone in
which he was desired to pass the wine which the stranger passed so
quickly away, or whether he felt very properly scandalised at an
influential member of the Pickwick Club being ignominiously compared
to a dismounted Bacchus, is a fact not yet completely ascertained. He
passed the wine, coughed twice, and looked at the stranger for several
seconds with a stern intensity; as that individual, however, appeared
perfectly collected, and quite calm under his searching glance, he
gradually relaxed, and reverted to the subject of the ball.
"I was about to observe, sir," he said, "that though my apparel would
be too large, a suit of my friend Mr. Winkle's would perhaps fit you
better."
The stranger took Mr. Winkle's measure with his eye, and that feature
glistened with satisfaction as he said--"Just the thing."
Mr. Tupman looked round him. The wine, which had exerted its
somniferous influence over Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle, had stolen
upon the senses of Mr. Pickwick. That gentleman had gradually passed
through the various stages which precede the lethargy produced by
dinner, and its consequences. He had undergone the ordinary transitions
from the height of conviviality to the depth of misery, and from the
depth of misery to the height of conviviality. Like a gas lamp in the
street, with the wind in the pipe, he had exhibited for a moment an
unnatural brilliancy: then sunk so low as to be scarcely discernible:
after a short interval he had burst out again, to enlighten for a
moment, then flickered with an uncertain, staggering sort of light,
and then gone out altogether. His head was sunk upon his bosom, and
perpetual snoring, with a partial choke occasionally, were the only
audible indications of the great man's presence.
The temptation to be present at the ball, and to form his first
impressions of the beauty of the Kentish ladies, was strong upon Mr.
Tupman. The temptation to take the stranger with him was equally great.
He was wholly unacquainted with the place and its inhabitants, and the
stranger seemed to possess as great a knowledge of both as if he had
lived there from his infancy. Mr. Winkle was asleep, and Mr. Tupman
had had sufficient experience in such matters to know that the moment
he awoke he would, in the ordinary course of nature, roll heavily to
bed. He was undecided. "Fill your glass, and pass the wine," said the
indefatigable visitor.
Mr. Tupman did as he was requested, and the additional stimulus of the
last glass settled his determination.
"Winkle's bedroom is inside mine," said Mr. Tupman; "I couldn't make
him understand what I wanted if I woke him now, but I know he has a
dress suit in a carpet bag, and supposing you wore it to the ball, and
took it off when we returned, I could replace it without troubling him
at all about the matter."
"Capital," said the stranger, "famous plan--damned odd
situation--fourteen coats in the packing cases, and obliged to wear
another man's--very good notion, that--very."
"We must purchase our tickets," said Mr. Tupman.
"Not worth while splitting a guinea," said the stranger, "toss who shall
pay for both--I call; you spin--first time--woman--woman--bewitching
woman," and down came the sovereign, with the Dragon (called by courtesy
a woman) uppermost.
Mr. Tupman rang the bell, purchased the tickets, and ordered chamber
candlesticks. In another quarter of an hour the stranger was completely
arrayed in a full suit of Mr. Nathaniel Winkle's.
"It's a new coat," said Mr. Tupman, as the stranger surveyed himself
with great complacency in a cheval glass, "the first that's been made
with our club button," and he called his companion's attention to the
large gilt button which displayed a bust of Mr. Pickwick in the centre,
and the letters "P. C." on either side.
"P. C.," said the stranger--"queer set out--old fellow's likeness, and
'P. C.'--What does 'P. C.' stand for--Peculiar Coat, eh?"
Mr. Tupman, with rising indignation and great importance, explained the
mystic device.
"Rather short in the waist, an't it," said the stranger, screwing
himself round to catch a glimpse in the glass of the waist buttons,
which were half way up his back. "Like a general postman's coat--queer
coats those--made by contract--no measuring--mysterious dispensations
of Providence--all the short men get long coats--all the long men short
ones." Running on in this way, Mr. Tupman's new companion adjusted
his dress, or rather the dress of Mr. Winkle; and, accompanied by Mr.
Tupman, ascended the staircase leading to the ball-room.
"What names, sir?" said the man at the door. Mr. Tracy Tupman was
stepping forward to announce his own titles, when the stranger
prevented him.
"No names at all;" and then he whispered Mr. Tupman, "Names
won't do--not known--very good names in their way, but not
great ones--capital names for a small party, but won't make an
impression in public assemblies--_incog._ the thing--Gentlemen from
London--distinguished foreigners--anything." The door was thrown open;
and Mr. Tracy Tupman and the stranger entered the ball-room.
It was a long room, with crimson-covered benches, and wax candles in
glass chandeliers. The musicians were securely confined in an elevated
den, and quadrilles were being systematically got through by two or
three sets of dancers. Two card-tables were made up in the adjoining
card-room, and two pair of old ladies, and a corresponding number of
stout gentlemen, were executing whist therein.
The finale concluded, the dancers promenaded the room, and Mr. Tupman
and his companion stationed themselves in a corner to observe the
company.
"Charming women," said Mr. Tupman.
"Wait a minute," said the stranger, "fun presently--nobs not come
yet--queer place--Dock-yard people of upper rank don't know Dock-yard
people of lower rank--Dock-yard people of lower rank don't know small
gentry--small gentry don't know tradespeople--Commissioner don't know
anybody."
"Who's that little boy with the light hair and pink eyes, in a fancy
dress?" inquired Mr. Tupman.
"Hush, pray--pink eyes--fancy dress--little boy--nonsense--Ensign
97th--Honourable Wilmot Snipe--great family--Snipes--very."
"Sir Thomas Clubber, Lady Clubber, and the Miss Clubbers!" shouted the
man at the door in a stentorian voice. A great sensation was created
throughout the room by the entrance of a tall gentleman in a blue coat
and bright buttons, a large lady in blue satin, and two young ladies,
on a similar scale, in fashionably-made dresses of the same hue.
"Commissioner--head of the yard--great man--remarkably great man,"
whispered the stranger in Mr. Tupman's ear, as the charitable committee
ushered Sir Thomas Clubber and family to the top of the room. The
Honourable Wilmot Snipe and other distinguished gentlemen crowded to
render homage to the Miss Clubbers; and Sir Thomas Clubber stood bolt
upright, and looked majestically over his black neckerchief at the
assembled company.
"Mr. Smithie, Mrs. Smithie, and the Misses Smithie," was the next
announcement.
"What's Mr. Smithie?" inquired Mr. Tracy Tupman.
"Something in the yard," replied the stranger. Mr. Smithie bowed
deferentially to Sir Thomas Clubber, and Sir Thomas Clubber
acknowledged the salute with conscious condescension. Lady Clubber took
a telescopic view of Mrs. Smithie and family through her eye-glass,
and Mrs. Smithie stared in her turn at Mrs. Somebody else, whose
husband was not in the Dock-yard at all.
"Colonel Bulder, Mrs. Colonel Bulder, and Miss Bulder," were the next
arrivals.
"Head of the Garrison," said the stranger, in reply to Mr. Tupman's
inquiring look.
Miss Bulder was warmly welcomed by the Miss Clubbers; the greeting
between Mrs. Colonel Bulder and Lady Clubber was of the most
affectionate description; Colonel Bulder and Sir Thomas Clubber
exchanged snuff-boxes, and looked very much like a pair of Alexander
Selkirks--"Monarchs of all they surveyed."
While the aristocracy of the place--the Bulders, and Clubbers, and
Snipes--were thus preserving their dignity at the upper end of the
room, the other classes of society were imitating their example in
other parts of it. The less aristocratic officers of the 97th devoted
themselves to the families of the less important functionaries from
the Dock-yard. The solicitors' wives and the wine-merchant's wife
headed another grade (the brewer's wife visited the Bulders); and Mrs.
Tomlinson, the post-office keeper, seemed by mutual consent to have
been chosen the leader of the trade party.
One of the most popular personages in his own circle present was a
little fat man, with a ring of upright black hair round his head, and
an extensive bald plain on the top of it--Doctor Slammer, surgeon to
the 97th. The Doctor took snuff with everybody, chatted with everybody,
laughed, danced, made jokes, played whist, did everything, and was
everywhere. To these pursuits, multifarious as they were, the little
Doctor added a more important one than any--he was indefatigable in
paying the most unremitting and devoted attention to a little old
widow, whose rich dress and profusion of ornament bespoke her a most
desirable addition to a limited income.
Upon the Doctor, and the widow, the eyes of both Mr. Tupman and his
companion had been fixed for some time, when the stranger broke silence.
"Lots of money--old girl--pompous Doctor--not a bad idea--good fun,"
were the intelligible sentences which issued from his lips. Mr. Tupman
looked inquisitively in his face.
"I'll dance with the widow," said the stranger.
"Who is she?" inquired Mr. Tupman.
"Don't know--never saw her in all my life--cut out the Doctor--here
goes." And the stranger forthwith crossed the room; and, leaning
against a mantelpiece, commenced gazing with an air of respectful and
melancholy admiration on the fat countenance of the little old lady.
Mr. Tupman looked on, in mute astonishment. The stranger progressed
rapidly; the little Doctor danced with another lady; the widow dropped
her fan, the stranger picked it up, and presented it,--a smile--a
bow--a curtsey--a few words of conversation. The stranger walked
boldly up to, and returned with, the master of ceremonies; a little
introductory pantomime; and the stranger and Mrs. Budger took their
places in a quadrille.
The surprise of Mr. Tupman at this summary proceeding, great as it
was, was immeasurably exceeded by the astonishment of the Doctor.
The stranger was young, and the widow was flattered. The Doctor's
attentions were unheeded by the widow; and the Doctor's indignation was
wholly lost on his imperturbable rival. Doctor Slammer was paralysed.
He, Doctor Slammer, of the 97th, to be extinguished in a moment, by a
man whom nobody had ever seen before, and whom nobody knew even now!
Doctor Slammer--Doctor Slammer of the 97th rejected! Impossible! It
could not be! Yes, it was; there they were. What! introducing his
friend! Could he believe his eyes! He looked again, and was under
the painful necessity of admitting the veracity of his optics; Mrs.
Budger was dancing with Mr. Tracy Tupman, there was no mistaking the
fact. There was the widow before him, bouncing bodily, here and there,
with unwonted vigour; and Mr. Tracy Tupman hopping about, with a face
expressive of the most intense solemnity, dancing (as a good many
people do) as if a quadrille were not a thing to be laughed at, but a
severe trial to the feelings, which it requires inflexible resolution
to encounter.
Silently and patiently did the Doctor bear all this, and all the
handings of negus, and watching for glasses, and darting for biscuits,
and coquetting, that ensued; but, a few seconds after the stranger had
disappeared to lead Mrs. Budger to her carriage, he darted swiftly from
the room with every particle of his hitherto-bottled-up indignation
effervescing, from all parts of his countenance, in a perspiration of
passion.
The stranger was returning, and Mr. Tupman was beside him. He spoke in
a low tone and laughed. The little Doctor thirsted for his life. He was
exulting. He had triumphed.
"Sir!" said the Doctor, in an awful voice, producing a card, and
retiring into an angle of the passage, "my name is Slammer, Doctor
Slammer, sir--97th Regiment--Chatham Barracks--my card, sir, my card."
He would have added more, but his indignation choked him.
"Ah!" replied the stranger, coolly, "Slammer--much obliged--polite
attention--not ill now, Slammer--but when I am--knock you up."
"You--you're a shuffler! sir," gasped the furious Doctor, "a
poltroon--a coward--a liar--a--a--will nothing induce you to give me
your card, sir!"
"Oh! I see," said the stranger, half aside, "negus too strong
here--liberal landlord--very foolish--very--lemonade much better--hot
rooms--elderly gentlemen--suffer for it in the morning--cruel--cruel;"
and he moved on a step or two.
"You are stopping in this house, sir," said the indignant little man;
"you are intoxicated now, sir; you shall hear from me in the morning,
sir. I shall find you out, sir; I shall find you out."
"Rather you found me out than found me at home," replied the unmoved
stranger.
Doctor Slammer looked unutterable ferocity, as he fixed his hat on his
head with an indignant knock; and the stranger and Mr. Tupman ascended
to the bed-room of the latter to restore the borrowed plumage to the
unconscious Winkle.
That gentleman was fast asleep; the restoration was soon made. The
stranger was extremely jocose; and Mr. Tracy Tupman, being quite
bewildered with wine, negus, lights, and ladies, thought the whole
affair an exquisite joke. His new friend departed; and, after
experiencing some slight difficulty in finding the orifice in his
night-cap, originally intended for the reception of his head, and
finally overturning his candlestick in his struggles to put it on,
Mr. Tracy Tupman managed to get into bed by a series of complicated
evolutions, and shortly afterwards sank into repose.
Seven o'clock had hardly ceased striking on the following morning
when Mr. Pickwick's comprehensive mind was aroused from the state of
unconsciousness in which slumber had plunged it, by a loud knocking at
his chamber door.
"Who's there?" said Mr. Pickwick, starting up in bed.
"Boots, sir."
"What do you want?"
"Please, sir, can you tell me which gentleman of your party wears a
bright blue dress coat, with a gilt button with P. C. on it?"
"It's been given out to brush," thought Mr. Pickwick, "and the man has
forgotten whom it belongs to. Mr. Winkle," he called out, "next room
but two, on the right hand."
"Thank'ee, sir," said the Boots, and away he went.
"What's the matter?" cried Mr. Tupman, as a loud knocking at _his_ door
aroused _him_ from his oblivious repose.
"Can I speak to Mr. Winkle, sir?" replied the Boots from the outside.
"Winkle--Winkle!" shouted Mr. Tupman, calling into the inner room.
"Hallo!" replied a faint voice from within the bed-clothes.
"You're wanted--some one at the door--" and having exerted himself
to articulate thus much, Mr. Tracy Tupman turned round and fell fast
asleep again.
"Wanted!" said Mr. Winkle, hastily jumping out of bed, and putting on a
few articles of clothing; "wanted! at this distance from town--who on
earth can want me?"
"Gentleman in the coffee-room, sir," replied the Boots, as Mr. Winkle
opened the door and confronted him; "gentleman says he'll not detain
you a moment, sir, but he can take no denial."
"Very odd!" said Mr. Winkle; "I'll be down directly."
He hurriedly wrapped himself in a travelling-shawl and dressing-gown,
and proceeded down-stairs. An old woman and a couple of waiters were
cleaning the coffee-room, and an officer in undress uniform was looking
out of the window. He turned round as Mr. Winkle entered, and made
a stiff inclination of the head. Having ordered the attendants to
retire, and closed the door very carefully, he said, "Mr. Winkle, I
presume?"
"My name _is_ Winkle, sir."
[Illustration: "_My name is Winkle, sir_"]
"You will not be surprised, sir, when I inform you that I have
called here this morning on behalf of my friend, Dr. Slammer, of the
Ninety-seventh."
"Doctor Slammer!" said Mr. Winkle.
"Dr. Slammer. He begged me to express his opinion that your conduct of
last evening was of a description which no gentleman could endure: and
(he added) which no one gentleman would pursue towards another."
Mr. Winkle's astonishment was too real, and too evident, to escape
the observation of Dr. Slammer's friend; he therefore proceeded--"My
friend, Doctor Slammer, requested me to add, that he was firmly
persuaded you were intoxicated during a portion of the evening, and
possibly unconscious of the extent of the insult you were guilty of.
He commissioned me to say, that should this be pleaded as an excuse
for your behaviour, he will consent to accept a written apology, to be
penned by you, from my dictation."
"A written apology!" repeated Mr. Winkle, in the most emphatic tone of
amazement possible.
"Of course you know the alternative," replied the visitor coolly.
"Were you entrusted with this message to me by name?" inquired Mr.
Winkle, whose intellects were hopelessly confused by this extraordinary
conversation.
"I was not present myself," replied the visitor, "and in consequence of
your firm refusal to give your card to Doctor Slammer, I was desired by
that gentleman to identify the wearer of a very uncommon coat--a bright
blue dress coat, with a gilt button displaying a bust, and the letters
'P. C.'"
Mr. Winkle actually staggered with astonishment as he heard his
own costume thus minutely described. Doctor Slammer's friend
proceeded--"From the inquiries I made at the bar, just now, I was
convinced that the owner of the coat in question arrived here, with
three gentlemen, yesterday afternoon. I immediately sent up to the
gentleman who was described as appearing the head of the party, and he
at once referred me to you."
If the principal tower of Rochester Castle had suddenly walked from its
foundation, and stationed itself opposite the coffee-room window, Mr.
Winkle's surprise would have been as nothing compared with the profound
astonishment with which he had heard this address. His first impression
was, that his coat had been stolen. "Will you allow me to detain you
one moment?" said he.
"Certainly," replied the unwelcome visitor.
Mr. Winkle ran hastily up-stairs, and with a trembling hand opened the
bag. There was the coat in its usual place, but exhibiting, on a close
inspection, evident tokens of having been worn on the preceding night.
"It must be so," said Mr. Winkle, letting the coat fall from his hands.
"I took too much wine after dinner, and have a very vague recollection
of walking about the streets and smoking a cigar afterwards. The fact
is, I was very drunk;--I must have changed my coat--gone somewhere--and
insulted somebody--I have no doubt of it; and this message is the
terrible consequence." Saying which, Mr. Winkle retraced his steps in
the direction of the coffee-room, with the gloomy and dreadful resolve
of accepting the challenge of the warlike Dr. Slammer, and abiding by
the worst consequences that might ensue.
To this determination Mr. Winkle was urged by a variety of
considerations, the first of which was, his reputation with the club.
He had always been looked up to as a high authority on all matters of
amusement and dexterity, whether offensive, defensive, or inoffensive;
and if, on this very first occasion of being put to the test, he
shrunk back from the trial, beneath his leader's eye, his name and
standing were lost for ever. Besides, he remembered to have heard it
frequently surmised by the uninitiated in such matters that by an
understood arrangement between the seconds, the pistols were seldom
loaded with ball; and, furthermore, he reflected that if he applied to
Mr. Snodgrass to act as his second, and depicted the danger in glowing
terms, that gentleman might possibly communicate the intelligence to
Mr. Pickwick, who would certainly lose no time in transmitting it to
the local authorities, and thus prevent the killing or maiming of his
follower.
Such were his thoughts when he returned to the coffee-room, and
intimated his intention of accepting the Doctor's challenge.
"Will you refer me to a friend, to arrange the time and place of
meeting?" said the officer.
"Quite unnecessary," replied Mr. Winkle; "name them to me, and I can
procure the attendance of a friend afterwards."
"Shall we say--sunset this evening?" inquired the officer, in a
careless tone.
"Very good," replied Mr. Winkle, thinking in his heart it was very bad.
"You know Fort Pitt?"
"Yes; I saw it yesterday."
"If you will take the trouble to turn into the field which borders the
trench, take the foot-path to the left when you arrive at an angle
of the fortification, and keep straight on, till you see me, I will
precede you to a secluded place, where the affair can be conducted
without fear of interruption."
"_Fear_ of interruption!" thought Mr. Winkle.
"Nothing more to arrange, I think," said the officer.
"I am not aware of anything more," replied Mr. Winkle.
"Good morning."
"Good morning:" and the officer whistled a lively air as he strode away.
That morning's breakfast passed heavily off. Mr. Tupman was not in
a condition to rise, after the unwonted dissipation of the previous
night; Mr. Snodgrass appeared to labour under a poetical depression of
spirits; and even Mr. Pickwick evinced an unusual attachment to silence
and soda-water. Mr. Winkle eagerly watched his opportunity; it was not
long wanting. Mr. Snodgrass proposed a visit to the castle, and as Mr.
Winkle was the only other member of the party disposed to walk, they
went out together.
"Snodgrass," said Mr. Winkle, when they had turned out of the public
street, "Snodgrass, my dear fellow, can I rely upon your secrecy?" As
he said this, he most devoutly and earnestly hoped he could not.
"You can," replied Mr. Snodgrass. "Hear me swear----"
"No, no," interrupted Winkle, terrified at the idea of his companion's
unconsciously pledging himself not to give information; "don't swear,
don't swear; it's quite unnecessary."
Mr. Snodgrass dropped the hand which he had, in the spirit of poesy,
raised towards the clouds as he made the above appeal, and assumed an
attitude of attention.
"I want your assistance, my dear fellow, in an affair of honour," said
Mr. Winkle.
"You shall have it," replied Mr. Snodgrass, clasping his friend's hand.
"With a Doctor--Doctor Slammer, of the Ninety-seventh," said Mr.
Winkle, wishing to make the matter appear as solemn as possible; "an
affair with an officer, seconded by another officer, at sunset this
evening, in a lonely field beyond Fort Pitt."
"I will attend you," said Mr. Snodgrass.
He was astonished, but by no means dismayed. It is extraordinary how
cool any party but the principal can be in such cases. Mr. Winkle had
forgotten this. He had judged of his friend's feelings by his own.
"The consequences may be dreadful," said Mr. Winkle.
"I hope not," said Mr. Snodgrass.
"The Doctor, I believe, is a very good shot," said Mr. Winkle.
"Most of these military men are," observed Mr. Snodgrass, calmly; "but
so are you, an't you?"
Mr. Winkle replied in the affirmative; and perceiving that he had not
alarmed his companion sufficiently, changed his ground.
"Snodgrass," he said, in a voice tremulous with emotion, "if I fall,
you will find in a packet which I shall place in your hands a note for
my--for my father."
This attack was a failure also. Mr. Snodgrass was affected, but he
undertook the delivery of the note as readily as if he had been a
Twopenny Postman.
"If I fall," said Mr. Winkle, "or if the Doctor falls, you, my dear
friend, will be tried as an accessory before the fact. Shall I involve
my friend in transportation--possibly for life!"
Mr. Snodgrass winced a little at this, but his heroism was invincible.
"In the cause of friendship," he fervently exclaimed, "I would brave
all dangers."
How Mr. Winkle cursed his companion's devoted friendship internally,
as they walked silently along, side by side, for some minutes, each
immersed in his own meditations! The morning was wearing away; he grew
desperate.
"Snodgrass," he said, stopping suddenly, "do _not_ let me be baulked
in this matter--do _not_ give information to the local authorities--do
_not_ obtain the assistance of several peace officers, to take either
me or Doctor Slammer, of the Ninety-seventh Regiment, at present
quartered in Chatham Barracks, into custody, and thus prevent this
duel;--I say, do _not_."
Mr. Snodgrass seized his friend's hand warmly, as he enthusiastically
replied, "Not for worlds!"
A thrill passed over Mr. Winkle's frame as the conviction that he had
nothing to hope from his friend's fears, and that he was destined to
become an animated target, rushed forcibly upon him.
The state of the case having been formally explained to Mr.
Snodgrass, and a case of satisfaction pistols, with the satisfactory
accompaniments of powder, ball, and caps, having been hired from a
manufacturer in Rochester, the two friends returned to their inn; Mr.
Winkle to ruminate on the approaching struggle, and Mr. Snodgrass
to arrange the weapons of war, and put them into proper order for
immediate use.
It was a dull and heavy evening when they again sallied forth on their
awkward errand. Mr. Winkle was muffled up in a huge cloak to escape
observation, and Mr. Snodgrass bore under his the instruments of
destruction.
"Have you got everything?" said Mr. Winkle, in an agitated tone.
"Everything," replied Mr. Snodgrass; "plenty of ammunition, in case the
shots don't take effect. There's a quarter of a pound of powder in the
case, and I have got two newspapers in my pocket for the loadings."
These were instances of friendship for which any man might reasonably
feel most grateful. The presumption is, that the gratitude of Mr.
Winkle was too powerful for utterance, as he said nothing, but
continued to walk on--rather slowly.
"We are in excellent time," said Mr. Snodgrass, as they climbed the
fence of the first field; "the sun is just going down." Mr. Winkle
looked up at the declining orb and painfully thought of the probability
of his "going down" himself, before long.
"There's the officer," exclaimed Mr. Winkle, after a few minutes'
walking.
"Where?" said Mr. Snodgrass.
"There;--the gentleman in the blue cloak." Mr. Snodgrass looked in
the direction indicated by the forefinger of his friend, and observed
a figure, muffled up, as he had described. The officer evinced his
consciousness of their presence by slightly beckoning with his hand;
and the two friends followed him at a little distance, as he walked
away.
The evening grew more dull every moment, and a melancholy wind sounded
through the deserted fields, like a distant giant whistling for his
house-dog. The sadness of the scene imparted a sombre tinge to the
feelings of Mr. Winkle. He started as they passed the angle of the
trench--it looked like a colossal grave.
The officer turned suddenly from the path, and after climbing a
paling, and scaling a hedge, entered a secluded field. Two gentlemen
were waiting in it; one was a little fat man, with black hair; and
the other--a portly personage in a braided surtout--was sitting with
perfect equanimity on a camp-stool.
"The other party, and a surgeon, I suppose," said Mr. Snodgrass; "take
a drop of brandy." Mr. Winkle seized the wicker bottle which his friend
proffered, and took a lengthened pull at the exhilarating liquid.
"My friend, sir, Mr. Snodgrass," said Mr. Winkle, as the officer
approached. Doctor Slammer's friend bowed, and produced a case similar
to that which Mr. Snodgrass carried.
"We have nothing farther to say, sir, I think," he coldly remarked, as
he opened the case; "an apology has been resolutely declined."
"Nothing, sir," said Mr. Snodgrass, who began to feel rather
uncomfortable himself.
"Will you step forward?" said the officer.
"Certainly," replied Mr. Snodgrass. The ground was measured, and
preliminaries arranged.
"You will find these better than your own," said the opposite second,
producing his pistols. "You saw me load them. Do you object to use
them?"
"Certainly not," replied Mr. Snodgrass. The offer relieved him from
considerable embarrassment, for his previous notions of loading a
pistol were rather vague and undefined.
"We may place our men, then, I think," observed the officer, with as
much indifference as if the principals were chess-men, and the seconds
players.
"I think we may," replied Mr. Snodgrass; who would have assented to
any proposition, because he knew nothing about the matter. The officer
crossed to Doctor Slammer, and Mr. Snodgrass went up to Mr. Winkle.
"It's all ready," he said, offering the pistol. "Give me your cloak."
"You have got the packet, my dear fellow," said poor Winkle.
"All right," said Mr. Snodgrass. "Be steady, and wing him."
It occurred to Mr. Winkle that this advice was very like that which
bystanders invariably give to the smallest boy in a street fight,
namely, "Go in, and win:"--an admirable thing to recommend, if you
only know how to do it. He took off his cloak, however, in silence--it
always took a long time to undo that cloak--and accepted the pistol.
The seconds retired, the gentleman on the camp-stool did the same, and
the belligerents approached each other.
Mr. Winkle was always remarkable for extreme humanity. It is
conjectured that his unwillingness to hurt a fellow-creature
intentionally was the cause of his shutting his eyes when he arrived
at the fatal spot; and that the circumstance of his eyes being closed,
prevented his observing the very extraordinary and unaccountable
demeanour of Doctor Slammer. That gentleman started, stared, retreated,
rubbed his eyes, stared again; and finally shouted "Stop, stop!"
"What's all this?" said Doctor Slammer, as his friend and Mr. Snodgrass
came running up. "That's not the man."
"Not the man!" said Dr. Slammer's second.
"Not the man!" said Mr. Snodgrass.
"Not the man!" said the gentleman with the camp-stool in his hand.
"Certainly not," replied the little Doctor. "That's not the person who
insulted me last night."
"Very extraordinary!" exclaimed the officer.
"Very," said the gentleman with the camp-stool. "The only question is,
whether the gentleman, being on the ground, must not be considered,
as a matter of form, to be the individual who insulted our friend,
Dr. Slammer, yesterday evening, whether he is really that individual
or not:" and having delivered this suggestion, with a very sage and
mysterious air, the man with the camp-stool took a large pinch of
snuff, and looked profoundly round, with the air of an authority in
such matters.
Now Mr. Winkle had opened his eyes, and his ears too, when he heard his
adversary call out for a cessation of hostilities; and perceiving by
what he had afterwards said, that there was, beyond all question, some
mistake in the matter, he at once foresaw the increase of reputation he
should inevitably acquire by concealing the real motive of his coming
out: he therefore stepped boldly forward, and said--
"I am not the person. I know it."
"Then, that," said the man with the camp-stool, "is an affront to Dr.
Slammer, and a sufficient reason for proceeding immediately."
"Pray be quiet, Payne," said the Doctor's second. "Why did you not
communicate this fact to me this morning, sir?"
"To be sure--to be sure," said the man with the camp-stool, indignantly.
"I entreat you to be quiet, Payne," said the other. "May I repeat my
question, sir?"
"Because, sir," replied Mr. Winkle, who had had time to deliberate
upon his answer, "because, sir, you described an intoxicated and
ungentlemanly person as wearing a coat which I have the honour, not
only to wear, but to have invented--the proposed uniform, sir, of the
Pickwick Club in London. The honour of that uniform I feel bound to
maintain, and I therefore, without inquiry, accepted the challenge
which you offered me."
"My dear sir," said the good-humoured little Doctor, advancing with
extended hand, "I honour your gallantry. Permit me to say, sir, that I
highly admire your conduct, and extremely regret having caused you the
inconvenience of this meeting, to no purpose."
"I beg you won't mention it, sir," said Mr. Winkle.
"I shall feel proud of your acquaintance, sir," said the little Doctor.
"It will afford me the greatest pleasure to know you, sir," replied Mr.
Winkle. Thereupon the Doctor and Mr. Winkle shook hands, and then Mr.
Winkle and Lieutenant Tappleton (the Doctor's second), and then Mr.
Winkle and the man with the camp-stool, and finally, Mr. Winkle and
Mr. Snodgrass--the last-named gentleman in an excess of admiration at
the noble conduct of his heroic friend.
"I think we may adjourn," said Lieutenant Tappleton.
"Certainly," added the Doctor.
"Unless," interposed the man with the camp-stool, "unless Mr. Winkle
feels himself aggrieved by the challenge; in which case, I submit, he
has a right to satisfaction."
Mr. Winkle, with great self-denial, expressed himself quite satisfied
already.
"Or possibly," said the man with the camp-stool, "the gentleman's
second may feel himself affronted with some observations which fell
from me at an early period of this meeting: if so, I shall be happy to
give _him_ satisfaction immediately."
Mr. Snodgrass hastily professed himself very much obliged with the
handsome offer of the gentleman who had spoken last, which he was
only induced to decline by his entire contentment with the whole
proceedings. The two seconds adjusted the cases, and the whole party
left the ground in a much more lively manner than they had proceeded to
it.
"Do you remain long here?" inquired Dr. Slammer of Mr. Winkle, as they
walked on most amicably together.
"I think we shall leave here the day after to-morrow," was the reply.
"I trust I shall have the pleasure of seeing you and your friend at my
rooms, and of spending a pleasant evening with you after this awkward
mistake," said the little Doctor; "are you disengaged this evening?"
"We have some friends here," replied Mr. Winkle, "and I should not like
to leave them to-night. Perhaps you and your friend will join us at the
Bull?"
"With great pleasure," said the little Doctor; "will ten o'clock be too
late to look in for half an hour?"
"Oh dear no," said Mr. Winkle. "I shall be most happy to introduce you
to my friends, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman."
"It will give me great pleasure, I am sure," replied Dr. Slammer,
little suspecting who Mr. Tupman was.
"You will be sure to come?" said Mr. Snodgrass.
"Oh, certainly."
By this time they had reached the road. Cordial farewells were
exchanged, and the party separated. Doctor Slammer and his friends
repaired to the barracks, and Mr. Winkle, accompanied by Mr. Snodgrass,
returned to their inn.