[Illustration]
_How Mr. Pickwick sped upon his Mission, and how he was Reinforced
in the Outset by a most unexpected Auxiliary_
The horses were put to punctually at a quarter before nine next
morning, and Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller having each taken his seat,
the one inside and the other out, the postilion was duly directed to
repair in the first instance to Mr. Bob Sawyer's house for the purpose
of taking up Mr. Benjamin Allen.
It was with feelings of no small astonishment, when the carriage drew
up before the door with the red lamp, and the very legible inscription
of "Sawyer, late Nockemorf," that Mr. Pickwick saw, on popping his
head out of the coach window, the boy in the grey livery very busily
engaged in putting up the shutters: the which, being an unusual and
un-business-like proceeding at that hour in the morning, at once
suggested to his mind two inferences; the one, that some good friend
and patient of Mr. Bob Sawyer's was dead; the other, that Mr. Bob
Sawyer himself was bankrupt.
"What is the matter?" said Mr. Pickwick to the boy.
"Nothing's the matter, sir," replied the boy, expanding his mouth to
the whole breadth of his countenance.
"All right, all right!" cried Bob Sawyer, suddenly appearing at the
door with a small leathern knapsack, limp and dirty, in one hand, and a
rough coat and shawl thrown over the other arm. "I'm going, old fellow."
"You!" exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
"Yes," replied Bob Sawyer, "and a regular expedition we'll make of it.
Here, Sam! Look out!" Thus briefly bespeaking Mr. Weller's attention,
Mr. Bob Sawyer jerked the leathern knapsack into the dickey, where it
was immediately stowed away, under the seat, by Sam, who regarded the
proceeding with great admiration. This done, Mr. Bob Sawyer, with the
assistance of the boy, forcibly worked himself into a rough coat, which
was a few sizes too small for him, and then advancing to the coach
window thrust in his head, and laughed boisterously.
"What a start it is, isn't it?" cried Bob, wiping the tears out of his
eyes, with one of the cuffs of the rough coat.
"My dear sir," said Mr. Pickwick, with some embarrassment, "I had no
idea of your accompanying us."
"No, that's just the very thing," replied Bob, seizing Mr. Pickwick by
the lappel of the coat. "That's the joke."
"Oh, that's the joke?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Of course," replied Bob. "It's the whole point of the thing, you
know--that, and leaving the business to take care of itself, as it
seems to have made up its mind not to take care of me." With this
explanation of the phenomenon of the shutters, Mr. Bob Sawyer pointed
to the shop, and relapsed into an ecstasy of mirth.
"Bless me, you are surely not mad enough to think of leaving your
patients without anybody to attend them!" remonstrated Mr. Pickwick in
a very serious tone.
"Why not?" asked Bob, in reply. "I shall save by it, you know. None of
them ever pay. Besides," said Bob, lowering his voice to a confidential
whisper, "they will be all the better for it; for, being nearly out of
drugs, and not able to increase my account just now, I should have been
obliged to give them calomel all round, and it would have been certain
to have disagreed with some of them. So it's all for the best."
There was a philosophy, and a strength of reasoning, about this reply,
which Mr. Pickwick was not prepared for. He paused a few moments, and
added, less firmly than before:
"But this chaise, my young friend, will only hold two; and I am pledged
to Mr. Allen."
"Don't think of me for a minute," replied Bob. "I've arranged it all;
Sam and I will share the dickey between us. Look here. This little bill
is to be wafered on the shop door: 'Sawyer, late Nockemorf. Inquire
of Mrs. Cripps, over the way.' Mrs. Cripps is my boy's mother. 'Mr.
Sawyer's very sorry,' says Mrs. Cripps, 'couldn't help it--fetched
away early this morning to a consultation of the very first surgeons
in the country--couldn't do without him--would have him at any
price--tremendous operation.' The fact is," said Bob in conclusion,
"it'll do me more good than otherwise, I expect. If it gets into one of
the local papers, it will be the making of me. Here's Ben; now then,
jump in!"
With these hurried words Mr. Bob Sawyer pushed the postboy on one side,
jerked his friend into the vehicle, slammed the door, put up the steps,
wafered the bill on the street door, locked it, put the key in his
pocket, jumped into the dickey, gave the word for starting, and did the
whole with such extraordinary precipitation, that before Mr. Pickwick
had well begun to consider whether Mr. Bob Sawyer ought to go or not,
they were rolling away, with Mr. Bob Sawyer thoroughly established as
part and parcel of the equipage.
So long as their progress was confined to the streets of Bristol,
the facetious Bob kept his professional green spectacles on, and
conducted himself with becoming steadiness and gravity of demeanour;
merely giving utterance to divers verbal witticisms for the exclusive
behoof and entertainment of Mr. Samuel Weller. But when they emerged
on the open road, he threw off his green spectacles and his gravity
together, and performed a great variety of practical jokes, which were
calculated to attract the attention of the passers-by, and to render
the carriage and those it contained objects of more than ordinary
curiosity; the least conspicuous among these feats being, a most
vociferous imitation of a key-bugle, and the ostentatious display of a
crimson silk pocket-handkerchief attached to a walking-stick, which
was occasionally waved in the air with various gestures indicative of
supremacy and defiance.
"I wonder," said Mr. Pickwick, stopping in the midst of a most sedate
conversation with Ben Allen, bearing reference to the numerous good
qualities of Mr. Winkle and his sister: "I wonder what all the people
we pass can see in us to make them stare so?"
"It's a neat turn-out," replied Ben Allen, with something of pride in
his tone. "They're not used to see this sort of thing every day, I
daresay."
"Possibly," replied Mr. Pickwick. "It may be so. Perhaps it is."
Mr. Pickwick might very probably have reasoned himself into the
belief that it really was: had he not, just then happening to look
out of the coach window, observed that the looks of the passengers
betokened anything but respectful astonishment, and that various
telegraphic communications appeared to be passing between them and
some persons outside the vehicle: whereupon it occurred to him that
these demonstrations might be, in some remote degree, referable to the
humorous deportment of Mr. Robert Sawyer.
"I hope," said Mr. Pickwick, "that our volatile friend is committing no
absurdities in that dickey behind?"
"Oh dear no," replied Ben Allen. "Except when he's elevated, Bob's the
quietest creature breathing."
Here a prolonged imitation of a key-bugle broke upon the ear, succeeded
by cheers and screams, all of which evidently proceeded from the
throat and lungs of the quietest creature breathing, or in plainer
designation, of Mr. Bob Sawyer himself.
Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Ben Allen looked expressively at each other, and
the former gentleman taking off his hat, and leaning out of the coach
window until nearly the whole of his waistcoat was outside it, was at
length enabled to catch a glimpse of his facetious friend.
Mr. Bob Sawyer was seated: not in the dickey, but on the roof of
the chaise, with his legs as far asunder as they would conveniently
go, wearing Mr. Samuel Weller's hat on one side of his head, and
bearing, in one hand, a most enormous sandwich, while, in the other,
he supported a goodly-sized case-bottle, to both of which he applied
himself with intense relish: varying the monotony of the occupation by
an occasional howl, or the interchange of some lively badinage with
any passing stranger. The crimson flag was carefully tied in an erect
position to the rail of the dickey; and Mr. Samuel Weller, decorated
with Bob Sawyer's hat, was seated in the centre thereof, discussing a
twin sandwich, with an animated countenance, the expression of which
betokened his entire and perfect approval of the whole arrangement.
This was enough to irritate a gentleman of Mr. Pickwick's sense of
propriety, but it was not the whole extent of the aggravation, for
a stage-coach, full inside and out, was meeting them at the moment,
and the astonishment of the passengers was very palpably evinced. The
congratulations of an Irish family, too, who were keeping up with
the chaise, and begging all the time, were of a rather boisterous
description; especially those of its male head, who appeared to
consider the display as part and parcel of some political or other
procession of triumph.
"Mr. Sawyer!" cried Mr. Pickwick, in a state of great excitement. "Mr.
Sawyer, sir!"
"Hallo!" responded that gentleman, looking over the side of the chaise
with all the coolness in life.
"Are you mad, sir?" demanded Mr. Pickwick.
"Not a bit of it," replied Bob; "only cheerful."
"Cheerful, sir!" ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. "Take down that scandalous
red handkerchief, I beg. I insist, sir. Sam, take it down."
Before Sam could interpose, Mr. Bob Sawyer gracefully struck his
colours, and having put them in his pocket, nodded in a courteous
manner to Mr. Pickwick, wiped the mouth of the case-bottle, and applied
it to his own; thereby informing him, without any unnecessary waste
of words, that he devoted that draught to wishing him all manner of
happiness and prosperity. Having done this, Bob replaced the cork with
great care, and looking benignantly down on Mr. Pickwick, took a large
bite out of the sandwich, and smiled.
"Come," said Mr. Pickwick, whose momentary anger was not quite proof
against Bob's immovable self-possession, "pray let us have no more of
this absurdity."
"No, no," replied Bob, once more exchanging hats with Mr. Weller; "I
didn't mean to do it, only I got so enlivened with the ride that I
couldn't help it."
"Think of the look of the thing," expostulated Mr. Pickwick; "have some
regard to appearances."
"Oh, certainly," said Bob, "it's not the sort of thing at all. All
over, governor."
Satisfied with this assurance, Mr. Pickwick once more drew his head
into the chaise and pulled up the glass; but he had scarcely resumed
the conversation which Mr. Bob Sawyer had interrupted, when he was
somewhat startled by the apparition of a small dark body, of an oblong
form, on the outside of the window, which gave sundry taps against it,
as if impatient of admission.
"What's this?" exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
"It looks like a case-bottle;" remarked Ben Allen, eyeing the object in
question through his spectacles with some interest; "I rather think it
belongs to Bob."
The impression was perfectly accurate; for Mr. Bob Sawyer, having
attached the case-bottle to the end of the walking-stick, was battering
the window with it in token of his wish that his friends inside would
partake of its contents, in all good fellowship and harmony.
"What's to be done?" said Mr. Pickwick, looking at the bottle. "This
proceeding is more absurd than the other."
"I think it would be best to take it in," replied Mr. Ben Allen; "it
would serve him right to take it and keep it, wouldn't it?"
"It would," said Mr. Pickwick: "shall I?"
"I think it the most proper course we could possibly adopt," replied
Ben.
This advice quite coinciding with his own opinion, Mr. Pickwick gently
let down the window and disengaged the bottle from the stick: upon
which the latter was drawn up, and Mr. Bob Sawyer was heard to laugh
heartily.
"What a merry dog it is!" said Mr. Pickwick, looking round at his
companion with the bottle in his hand.
"He is," said Mr. Allen.
"You cannot possibly be angry with him," remarked Mr. Pickwick.
"Quite out of the question," observed Benjamin Allen.
During this short interchange of sentiments, Mr. Pickwick had, in an
abstracted mood, uncorked the bottle.
"What is it?" inquired Ben Allen, carelessly.
"I don't know," replied Mr. Pickwick, with equal carelessness. "It
smells, I think, like milk-punch."
"Oh, indeed?" said Ben.
"I _think_ so," rejoined Mr. Pickwick, very properly guarding himself
against the possibility of stating an untruth: "mind, I could not
undertake to say certainly, without tasting it."
"You had better do so," said Ben, "we may as well know what it is."
"Do you think so?" replied Mr. Pickwick. "Well; if you are curious to
know, of course I have no objection."
Ever willing to sacrifice his own feelings to the wishes of his friend,
Mr. Pickwick at once took a pretty long taste.
"What is it?" inquired Ben Allen, interrupting him with some impatience.
"Curious," said Mr. Pickwick, smacking his lips, "I hardly know now. Oh
yes!" said Mr. Pickwick, after a second taste. "It _is_ punch."
Mr. Ben Allen looked at Mr. Pickwick; Mr. Pickwick looked at Mr. Ben
Allen; Mr. Ben Allen smiled; Mr. Pickwick did not.
"It would serve him right," said the last-named gentleman, with some
severity, "it would serve him right to drink it every drop."
"The very thing that occurred to me," said Ben Allen.
"Is it indeed?" rejoined Mr. Pickwick. "Then here's his health!" With
these words, that excellent person took a most energetic pull at the
bottle, and handed it to Ben Allen, who was not slow to imitate his
example. The smiles became mutual, and the milk-punch was gradually and
cheerfully disposed of.
"After all," said Mr. Pickwick, as he drained the last drop, "his
pranks are really very amusing: very entertaining indeed."
"You may say that," rejoined Mr. Ben Allen. In proof of Bob Sawyer's
being one of the funniest fellows alive, he proceeded to entertain Mr.
Pickwick with a long and circumstantial account how that gentleman once
drank himself into a fever and got his head shaved; the relation of
which pleasant and agreeable history was only stopped by the stoppage
of the chaise at the Bell at Berkeley Heath, to change horses.
"I say! We're going to dine here, aren't we?" said Bob, looking in at
the window.
"Dine!" said Mr. Pickwick. "Why, we have only come nineteen miles, and
have eighty-seven and a half to go."
"Just the reason why we should take something to enable us to bear up
against the fatigue," remonstrated Mr. Bob Sawyer.
"Oh, it's quite impossible to dine at half-past eleven o'clock in the
day," replied Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch.
"So it is," rejoined Bob, "lunch is the very thing. Hallo, you sir!
Lunch for three, directly, and keep the horses back for a quarter of an
hour. Tell them to put everything they have cold on the table and some
bottled ale, and let us taste your very best Madeira." Issuing these
orders with monstrous importance and bustle, Mr. Bob Sawyer at once
hurried into the house to superintend the arrangements; in less than
five minutes he returned and declared them to be excellent.
The quality of the lunch fully justified the eulogium which Bob had
pronounced, and very great justice was done to it, not only by that
gentleman, but Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Pickwick also. Under the auspices
of the three, the bottled ale and the Madeira were promptly disposed
of; and when (the horses being once more put to) they resumed their
seats, with the case-bottle full of the best substitute for milk-punch
that could be procured on so short a notice, the key-bugle sounded, and
the red flag waved, without the slightest opposition on Mr. Pickwick's
part.
At the Hop Pole at Tewkesbury, they stopped to dine; upon which
occasion there was more bottled ale, with some more Madeira, and some
port besides; and here the case-bottle was replenished for the third
time. Under the influence of these combined stimulants, Mr. Pickwick
and Mr. Ben Allen fell fast asleep for thirty miles, while Bob and Mr.
Weller sang duets in the dickey.
It was quite dark when Mr. Pickwick roused himself sufficiently to
look out of the window. The straggling cottages by the roadside, the
dingy hue of every object visible, the murky atmosphere, the paths
of cinders and brick-dust, the deep-red glow of furnace fires in the
distance, the volumes of dense smoke issuing heavily forth from the
high toppling chimneys, blackening and obscuring everything around; the
glare of distant lights, the ponderous waggons which toiled along the
road, laden with clashing rods of iron, or piled with heavy goods--all
betokened their rapid approach to the great working town of Birmingham.
As they rattled through the narrow thoroughfares leading to the heart
of the turmoil, the sights and sounds of earnest occupation struck more
forcibly on the senses. The streets were thronged with working-people.
The hum of labour resounded from every house, lights gleamed from the
long casement windows in the attic stories, and the whirl of wheels and
noise of machinery shook the trembling walls. The fires, whose lurid,
sullen light had been visible for miles, blazed fiercely up, in the
great works and factories of the town. The din of hammers, the rushing
of steam, and the dead heavy clanking of engines, was the harsh music
which arose from every quarter.
The postboy was driving briskly through the open streets, and past the
handsome and well-lighted shops which intervene between the outskirts
of the town and the Old Royal Hotel, before Mr. Pickwick had begun to
consider the very difficult and delicate nature of the commission which
had carried him thither.
The delicate nature of this commission, and the difficulty of executing
it in a satisfactory manner, were by no means lessened by the voluntary
companionship of Mr. Bob Sawyer. Truth to tell, Mr. Pickwick felt that
his presence on the occasion, however considerate and gratifying, was
by no means an honour he would willingly have sought; in fact, he would
cheerfully have given a reasonable sum of money to have had Mr. Bob
Sawyer removed to any place at not less than fifty miles distance,
without delay.
Mr. Pickwick had never held any personal communication with Mr. Winkle
senior, although he had once or twice corresponded with him by letter,
and returned satisfactory answers to his inquiries concerning the moral
character and behaviour of his son; he felt nervously sensible that
to wait upon him, for the first time, attended by Bob Sawyer and Ben
Allen, both slightly fuddled, was not the most ingenious and likely
means that could have been hit upon to prepossess him in his favour.
"However," said Mr. Pickwick, endeavouring to reassure himself, "I must
do the best I can. I must see him to-night, for I faithfully promised
to do so. If they persist in accompanying me, I must make the interview
as brief as possible, and be content to hope that, for their own sakes,
they will not expose themselves."
As he comforted himself with these reflections, the chaise stopped at
the door of the Old Royal. Ben Allen having been partially awakened
from a stupendous sleep, and dragged out by the collar by Mr. Samuel
Weller, Mr. Pickwick was enabled to alight. They were shown to a
comfortable apartment, and Mr. Pickwick at once propounded a question
to the waiter concerning the whereabout of Mr. Winkle's residence.
"Close by, sir," said the waiter, "not above five hundred yards, sir.
Mr. Winkle is a wharfinger, sir, at the canal, sir. Private residence
is not--oh dear no, sir, _not_ five hundred yards, sir." Here the
waiter blew a candle out, and made a feint of lighting it again, in
order to afford Mr. Pickwick an opportunity of asking any further
questions, if he felt so disposed.
"Take anything now, sir?" said the waiter, lighting the candle in
desperation at Mr. Pickwick's silence. "Tea or coffee, sir? Dinner,
sir?"
"Nothing now."
"Very good, sir. Like to order supper, sir?"
"Not just now."
"_Very_ good, sir." Here, he walked softly to the door, and then
stopping short, turned round and said, with great suavity:
"Shall I send the chambermaid, gentlemen?"
"You may, if you please," replied Mr. Pickwick.
"If _you_ please, sir."
"And bring some soda water," said Bob Sawyer.
"Soda water, sir? Yes, sir." With his mind apparently relieved from an
overwhelming weight, by having at last got an order for something, the
waiter imperceptibly melted away. Waiters never walk or run. They have
a peculiar and mysterious power of skimming out of rooms, which other
mortals possess not.
Some slight symptoms of vitality having been awakened in Mr. Ben Allen
by the soda water, he suffered himself to be prevailed upon to wash his
face and hands, and to submit to be brushed by Sam. Mr. Pickwick and
Bob Sawyer having also repaired the disorder which the journey had made
in their apparel, the three started forth, arm in arm, to Mr. Winkle's;
Bob Sawyer impregnating the atmosphere with tobacco smoke as he walked
along.
About a quarter of a mile off, in a quiet, substantial-looking street,
stood an old red-brick house with three steps before the door, and a
brass plate upon it, bearing, in fat Roman capitals, the words, "Mr.
Winkle." The steps were very white, and the bricks were very red, and
the house was very clean; and here stood Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Benjamin
Allen, and Mr. Bob Sawyer, as the clock struck ten.
A smart servant girl answered the door, and started on beholding the
three strangers.
"Is Mr. Winkle at home, my dear?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
"He is just going to supper, sir," replied the girl.
"Give him that card, if you please," rejoined Mr. Pickwick. "Say I am
sorry to trouble him at so late an hour; but I am anxious to see him
to-night, and have only just arrived."
The girl looked timidly at Mr. Bob Sawyer, who was expressing his
admiration of her personal charms by a variety of wonderful grimaces;
and casting an eye at the hats and great-coats which hung in the
passage, called another girl to mind the door while she went upstairs.
The sentinel was speedily relieved; for the girl returned immediately,
and begging pardon of the gentlemen for leaving them in the street,
ushered them into a floor-clothed back parlour, half office and half
dressing-room, in which the principal useful and ornamental articles
of furniture were a desk, a wash-hand stand and shaving glass, a
boot-rack and boot-jack, a high stool, four chairs, a table, and an old
eight-day clock. Over the mantelpiece were the sunken doors of an iron
safe, while a couple of hanging shelves for books, an almanack, and
several files of dusty papers, decorated the walls.
"Very sorry to leave you standing at the door, sir," said the girl,
lighting a lamp, and addressing Mr. Pickwick with a winning smile, "but
you was quite strangers to me; and we have such a many trampers that
only come to see what they can lay their hands on, that really----"
"There is not the least occasion for any apology, my dear," said Mr.
Pickwick, good-humouredly.
"Not the slightest, my love," said Bob Sawyer, playfully stretching
forth his arms, and skipping from side to side, as if to prevent the
young lady's leaving the room.
The young lady was not at all softened by these allurements, for she at
once expressed her opinion that Mr. Bob Sawyer was an "odous creetur;"
and, on his becoming rather more pressing in his attentions, imprinted
her fair fingers upon his face, and bounced out of the room with many
expressions of aversion and contempt.
Deprived of the young lady's society, Mr. Bob Sawyer proceeded
to divert himself by peeping into the desk, looking into all the
table-drawers, feigning to pick the lock of the iron safe, turning the
almanack with its face to the wall, trying on the boots of Mr. Winkle
senior over his own, and making several other humorous experiments upon
the furniture, all of which afforded Mr. Pickwick unspeakable horror
and agony, and yielded Mr. Bob Sawyer proportionate delight.
At length the door opened, and a little old gentleman in a
snuff-coloured suit, with a head and face the precise counterpart of
those belonging to Mr. Winkle junior, excepting that he was rather
bald, trotted into the room with Mr. Pickwick's card in one hand, and a
silver candlestick in the other.
"Mr. Pickwick, sir, how do you do?" said Winkle the elder, putting down
the candlestick and proffering his hand. "Hope I see you well, sir?
Glad to see you. Be seated, Mr. Pickwick, I beg, sir. This gentleman
is----"
"My friend, Mr. Sawyer," interposed Mr. Pickwick, "your son's friend."
"Oh," said Mr. Winkle the elder, looking rather grimly at Bob. "I hope
_you_ are well, sir?"
"Right as a trivet, sir," replied Bob Sawyer.
[Illustration: _Mr. Winkle senior_]
"This other gentleman," cried Mr. Pickwick, "is, as you will see,
when you have read the letter with which I am entrusted, a very near
relative or, I should rather say, a very particular friend of your
son's. His name is Allen."
"_That_ gentleman?" inquired Mr. Winkle, pointing with the card towards
Ben Allen, who had fallen asleep in an attitude which left nothing of
him visible but his spine and his coat collar.
Mr. Pickwick was on the point of replying to the question, and reciting
Mr. Benjamin Allen's name and honourable distinctions at full length,
when the sprightly Mr. Bob Sawyer, with a view of rousing his friend
to a sense of his situation, inflicted a startling pinch upon the
fleshy part of his arm, which caused him to jump up with a shriek.
Suddenly aware that he was in the presence of a stranger, Mr. Ben Allen
advanced and, shaking Mr. Winkle most affectionately by both hands for
about five minutes, murmured, in some half-intelligible fragments of
sentences, the great delight he felt in seeing him, and a hospitable
inquiry whether he felt disposed to take anything after his walk, or
would prefer waiting "till dinner time;" which done, he sat down and
gazed about him with a petrified stare, as if he had not the remotest
idea where he was, which indeed he had not.
All this was most embarrassing to Mr. Pickwick, the more especially as
Mr. Winkle senior evinced palpable astonishment at the eccentric--not
to say extraordinary--behaviour of his two companions. To bring the
matter to an issue at once, he drew a letter from his pocket, and
presenting it to Mr. Winkle senior, said:
"This letter, sir, is from your son. You will see, by its contents,
that on your favourable and fatherly consideration of it, depend his
future happiness and welfare. Will you oblige me by giving it the
calmest and coolest perusal, and by discussing the subject afterwards
with me, in the tone and spirit in which alone it ought to be
discussed? You may judge of the importance of your decision to your
son, and his intense anxiety upon the subject, by my waiting upon you
without any previous warning, at so late an hour; and," added Mr.
Pickwick, glancing slightly at his two companions, "and under such
unfavourable circumstances."
With this prelude, Mr. Pickwick placed four closely written sides of
extra superfine wire-woven penitence in the hands of the astounded
Mr. Winkle senior. Then reseating himself in his chair, he watched
his looks and manner: anxiously, it is true, but with the open front
of a gentleman who feels he has taken no part which he need excuse or
palliate.
The old wharfinger turned the letter over; looked at the front, back,
and sides; made a microscopic examination of the fat little boy on the
seal; raised his eyes to Mr. Pickwick's face; and then, seating himself
on the high stool, and drawing the lamp closer to him, broke the wax,
unfolded the epistle, and lifting it to the light, he prepared to read.
Just at this moment, Mr. Bob Sawyer, whose wit had lain dormant for
some minutes, placed his hands upon his knees, and made a face after
the portrait of the late Mr. Grimaldi, as clown. It so happened that
Mr. Winkle senior, instead of being deeply engaged in reading the
letter, as Mr. Bob Sawyer thought, chanced to be looking over the
top of it at no less a person than Mr. Bob Sawyer himself; rightly
conjecturing that the face aforesaid was made in ridicule and derision
of his own person, he fixed his eyes on Bob with such expressive
sternness, that the late Mr. Grimaldi's lineaments gradually resolved
themselves into a very fine expression of humility and confusion.
"Did you speak, sir?" inquired Mr. Winkle senior, after an awful
silence.
"No, sir," replied Bob, with no remains of the clown about him, save
and except the extreme redness of his cheeks.
"You are sure you did not, sir?" said Mr. Winkle senior.
"Oh dear yes, sir, quite," replied Bob.
"I thought you did, sir," rejoined the old gentleman, with indignant
emphasis. "Perhaps you _looked_ at me, sir?"
"Oh no, sir! not at all," replied Bob, with extreme civility.
"I am very glad to hear it, sir," said Mr. Winkle senior. Having
frowned upon the abashed Bob with great magnificence, the old gentleman
again brought the letter to the light, and began to read it seriously.
Mr. Pickwick eyed him intently as he turned from the bottom line of the
first page to the top line of the second, and from the bottom of the
second to the top of the third, and from the bottom of the third to
the top of the fourth; but not the slightest alteration of countenance
afforded a clue to the feelings with which he received the announcement
of his son's marriage, which Mr. Pickwick knew was in the very first
half-dozen lines.
He read the letter to the last word; folded it again with all the
carefulness and precision of a man of business; and, just when Mr.
Pickwick expected some great outbreak of feeling, dipped a pen in
the inkstand, and said as quietly as if he were speaking on the most
ordinary counting-house topic:
"What is Nathaniel's address, Mr. Pickwick?"
"The George and Vulture, at present," replied that gentleman.
"George and Vulture. Where is that?"
"George Yard, Lombard Street."
"In the City?"
"Yes."
The old gentleman methodically indorsed the address on the back of the
letter; and then, placing it in the desk, which he locked, said as he
got off the stool and placed the bunch of keys in his pocket:
"I suppose there is nothing else which need detain us, Mr. Pickwick?"
"Nothing else, my dear sir!" observed that warm-hearted person in
indignant amazement. "Nothing else! Have you no opinion to express
on this momentous event in our young friend's life? No assurance to
convey to him, through me, of the continuance of your affection and
protection? Nothing to say which will cheer and sustain him, and the
anxious girl who looks to him for comfort and support? My dear sir,
consider."
"I will consider," replied the old gentleman. "I have nothing to say
just now. I am a man of business, Mr. Pickwick. I never commit myself
hastily in any affair, and from what I see of this, I by no means like
the appearance of it. A thousand pounds is not much, Mr. Pickwick."
"You're very right, sir," interposed Ben Allen, just awake enough to
know that he had spent _his_ thousand pounds without the smallest
difficulty. "You're an intelligent man. Bob, he's a very knowing fellow
this."
"I am very happy to find that _you_ do me the justice to make the
admission, sir," said Mr. Winkle senior, looking contemptuously at Ben
Allen, who was shaking his head profoundly. "The fact is, Mr. Pickwick,
that when I gave my son a roving license for a year or so, to see
something of men and manners (which he has done under your auspices),
so that he might not enter into life a mere boarding-school milk-sop
to be gulled by everybody, I never bargained for this. He knows that,
very well, so if I withdraw my countenance from him on this account, he
has no call to be surprised. He shall hear from me, Mr. Pickwick. Good
night, sir. Margaret, open the door."
All this time, Bob Sawyer had been nudging Mr. Ben Allen to say
something on the right side; Ben accordingly now burst, without the
slightest preliminary notice, into a brief but impassioned piece of
eloquence.
"Sir," said Mr. Ben Allen, staring at the old gentleman, out of a pair
of very dim and languid eyes, and working his right arm vehemently up
and down, "you--you ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"As the lady's brother, of course you are an excellent judge of the
question," retorted Mr. Winkle senior. "There; that's enough. Pray say
no more, Mr. Pickwick. Good night, gentlemen!"
With these words the old gentleman took up the candlestick, and opening
the room door, politely motioned towards the passage.
"You will regret this, sir," said Mr. Pickwick, setting his teeth close
together to keep down his choler; for he felt how important the effect
might prove to his young friend.
"I am at present of a different opinion," calmly replied Mr. Winkle
senior. "Once again, gentlemen, I wish you a good night."
Mr. Pickwick walked, with angry strides, into the street. Mr. Bob
Sawyer, completely quelled by the decision of the old gentleman's
manner, took the same course. Mr. Ben Allen's hat rolled down the steps
immediately afterwards, and Mr. Ben Allen's body followed it directly.
The whole party went silent and supperless to bed; and Mr. Pickwick
thought, just before he fell asleep, that if he had known Mr. Winkle
senior had been quite so much of a man of business, it was extremely
probable he might never have waited upon him, on such an errand.