CHAPTER XLII. ILLUSTRATIVE, LIKE THE PRECEDING ONE, OF THE OLD PROVERB,THAT ADVERSITY BRINGS A MAN ACQUAINTED WITH STRANGE BEDFELLOWS--LIKEWISE CONTAINING MR. PICKWICK'S EXTRAORDINARY AND STARTLINGANNOUNCEMENT TO MR. SAMUEL WELLER
When Mr. Pickwick opened his eyes next morning, the first object uponwhich they rested was Samuel Weller, seated upon a small blackportmanteau, intently regarding, apparently in a condition of profoundabstraction, the stately figure of the dashing Mr. Smangle; while Mr.Smangle himself, who was already partially dressed, was seated on hisbedstead, occupied in the desperately hopeless attempt of staring Mr.Weller out of countenance. We say desperately hopeless, because Sam,with a comprehensive gaze which took in Mr. Smangle's cap, feet, head,face, legs, and whiskers, all at the same time, continued to looksteadily on, with every demonstration of lively satisfaction, but withno more regard to Mr. Smangle's personal sentiments on the subject thanhe would have displayed had he been inspecting a wooden statue, or astraw-embowelled Guy Fawkes.
'Well; will you know me again?' said Mr. Smangle, with a frown.
'I'd svear to you anyveres, Sir,' replied Sam cheerfully.
'Don't be impertinent to a gentleman, Sir,' said Mr. Smangle.
'Not on no account,' replied Sam. 'If you'll tell me wen he wakes, I'llbe upon the wery best extra-super behaviour!' This observation, having aremote tendency to imply that Mr. Smangle was no gentleman, kindled hisire.
'Mivins!' said Mr. Smangle, with a passionate air.
'What's the office?' replied that gentleman from his couch.
'Who the devil is this fellow?'
''Gad,' said Mr. Mivins, looking lazily out from under the bed-clothes,'I ought to ask _you _that. Hasn't he any business here?'
'No,' replied Mr. Smangle.
'Then knock him downstairs, and tell him not to presume to get up till Icome and kick him,' rejoined Mr. Mivins; with this prompt advice thatexcellent gentleman again betook himself to slumber.
The conversation exhibiting these unequivocal symptoms of verging on thepersonal, Mr. Pickwick deemed it a fit point at which to interpose.
'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Sir,' rejoined that gentleman.
'Has anything new occurred since last night?'
'Nothin' partickler, sir,' replied Sam, glancing at Mr. Smangle'swhiskers; 'the late prewailance of a close and confined atmosphere hasbeen rayther favourable to the growth of veeds, of an alarmin' andsangvinary natur; but vith that 'ere exception things is quiet enough.'
'I shall get up,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'give me some clean things.'
Whatever hostile intentions Mr. Smangle might have entertained, histhoughts were speedily diverted by the unpacking of the portmanteau; thecontents of which appeared to impress him at once with a most favourableopinion, not only of Mr. Pickwick, but of Sam also, who, he took anearly opportunity of declaring in a tone of voice loud enough for thateccentric personage to overhear, was a regular thoroughbred original,and consequently the very man after his own heart. As to Mr. Pickwick,the affection he conceived for him knew no limits.
'Now is there anything I can do for you, my dear Sir?' said Smangle.
'Nothing that I am aware of, I am obliged to you,' replied Mr. Pickwick.
'No linen that you want sent to the washerwoman's? I know a delightfulwasherwoman outside, that comes for my things twice a week; and, byJove!--how devilish lucky!--this is the day she calls. Shall I put anyof those little things up with mine? Don't say anything about thetrouble. Confound and curse it! if one gentleman under a cloud is not toput himself a little out of the way to assist another gentleman in thesame condition, what's human nature?'
Thus spake Mr. Smangle, edging himself meanwhile as near as possible tothe portmanteau, and beaming forth looks of the most fervent anddisinterested friendship.
'There's nothing you want to give out for the man to brush, my dearcreature, is there?' resumed Smangle.
'Nothin' whatever, my fine feller,' rejoined Sam, taking the reply intohis own mouth. 'P'raps if vun of us wos to brush, without troubling theman, it 'ud be more agreeable for all parties, as the schoolmaster saidwhen the young gentleman objected to being flogged by the butler.'
'And there's nothing I can send in my little box to the washer-woman's,is there?' said Smangle, turning from Sam to Mr. Pickwick, with an airof some discomfiture.
'Nothin' whatever, Sir,' retorted Sam; 'I'm afeered the little box mustbe chock full o' your own as it is.'
This speech was accompanied with such a very expressive look at thatparticular portion of Mr. Smangle's attire, by the appearance of whichthe skill of laundresses in getting up gentlemen's linen is generallytested, that he was fain to turn upon his heel, and, for the present atany rate, to give up all design on Mr. Pickwick's purse and wardrobe. Heaccordingly retired in dudgeon to the racket-ground, where he made alight and whole-some breakfast on a couple of the cigars which had beenpurchased on the previous night.
Mr. Mivins, who was no smoker, and whose account for small articles ofchandlery had also reached down to the bottom of the slate, and been'carried over' to the other side, remained in bed, and, in his ownwords, 'took it out in sleep.'
After breakfasting in a small closet attached to the coffee-room, whichbore the imposing title of the Snuggery, the temporary inmate of which,in consideration of a small additional charge, had the unspeakableadvantage of overhearing all the conversation in the coffee-roomaforesaid; and, after despatching Mr. Weller on some necessary errands,Mr. Pickwick repaired to the lodge, to consult Mr. Roker concerning hisfuture accommodation.
'Accommodation, eh?' said that gentleman, consulting a large book.'Plenty of that, Mr. Pickwick. Your chummage ticket will be on twenty-seven, in the third.'
'Oh,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'My what, did you say?'
'Your chummage ticket,' replied Mr. Roker; 'you're up to that?'
'Not quite,' replied Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.
'Why,' said Mr. Roker, 'it's as plain as Salisbury. You'll have achummage ticket upon twenty-seven in the third, and them as is in theroom will be your chums.'
'Are there many of them?' inquired Mr. Pickwick dubiously.
'Three,' replied Mr. Roker.
Mr. Pickwick coughed.
'One of 'em's a parson,' said Mr. Roker, filling up a little piece ofpaper as he spoke; 'another's a butcher.'
'Eh?' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
'A butcher,' repeated Mr. Roker, giving the nib of his pen a tap on thedesk to cure it of a disinclination to mark. 'What a thorough-paced goerhe used to be sure-ly! You remember Tom Martin, Neddy?' said Roker,appealing to another man in the lodge, who was paring the mud off hisshoes with a five-and-twenty-bladed pocket-knife.
'I should think so,' replied the party addressed, with a strong emphasison the personal pronoun.
'Bless my dear eyes!' said Mr. Roker, shaking his head slowly from sideto side, and gazing abstractedly out of the grated windows before him,as if he were fondly recalling some peaceful scene of his early youth;'it seems but yesterday that he whopped the coal-heaver down Fox-under-the-Hill by the wharf there. I think I can see him now, a-coming up theStrand between the two street-keepers, a little sobered by the bruising,with a patch o' winegar and brown paper over his right eyelid, and that'ere lovely bulldog, as pinned the little boy arterwards, a-following athis heels. What a rum thing time is, ain't it, Neddy?'
The gentleman to whom these observations were addressed, who appeared ofa taciturn and thoughtful cast, merely echoed the inquiry; Mr. Roker,shaking off the poetical and gloomy train of thought into which he hadbeen betrayed, descended to the common business of life, and resumed hispen.
'Do you know what the third gentlemen is?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, notvery much gratified by this description of his future associates.
'What is that Simpson, Neddy?' said Mr. Roker, turning to his companion.
'What Simpson?' said Neddy.
'Why, him in twenty-seven in the third, that this gentleman's going tobe chummed on
.'
'Oh, him!' replied Neddy; 'he's nothing exactly. He _was _a horsechaunter: he's a leg now.'
'Ah, so I thought,' rejoined Mr. Roker, closing the book, and placingthe small piece of paper in Mr. Pickwick's hands. 'That's the ticket,sir.'
Very much perplexed by this summary disposition of this person, Mr.Pickwick walked back into the prison, revolving in his mind what he hadbetter do. Convinced, however, that before he took any other steps itwould be advisable to see, and hold personal converse with, the threegentlemen with whom it was proposed to quarter him, he made the best ofhis way to the third flight.
After groping about in the gallery for some time, attempting in the dimlight to decipher the numbers on the different doors, he at lengthappealed to a pot-boy, who happened to be pursuing his morningoccupation of gleaning for pewter.
'Which is twenty-seven, my good fellow?' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Five doors farther on,' replied the pot-boy. 'There's the likeness of aman being hung, and smoking the while, chalked outside the door.'
Guided by this direction, Mr. Pickwick proceeded slowly along thegallery until he encountered the 'portrait of a gentleman,' abovedescribed, upon whose countenance he tapped, with the knuckle of hisforefinger--gently at first, and then audibly. After repeating thisprocess several times without effect, he ventured to open the door andpeep in.
There was only one man in the room, and he was leaning out of window asfar as he could without overbalancing himself, endeavouring, with greatperseverance, to spit upon the crown of the hat of a personal friend onthe parade below. As neither speaking, coughing, sneezing, knocking, norany other ordinary mode of attracting attention, made this person awareof the presence of a visitor, Mr. Pickwick, after some delay, stepped upto the window, and pulled him gently by the coat tail. The individualbrought in his head and shoulders with great swiftness, and surveyingMr. Pickwick from head to foot, demanded in a surly tone what the--something beginning with a capital H--he wanted.
'I believe,' said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his ticket--'I believe thisis twenty-seven in the third?'
'Well?' replied the gentleman.
'I have come here in consequence of receiving this bit of paper,'rejoined Mr. Pickwick.
'Hand it over,' said the gentleman.
Mr. Pickwick complied.
'I think Roker might have chummed you somewhere else,' said Mr. Simpson(for it was the leg), after a very discontented sort of a pause.
Mr. Pickwick thought so also; but, under all the circumstances, heconsidered it a matter of sound policy to be silent.
Mr. Simpson mused for a few moments after this, and then, thrusting hishead out of the window, gave a shrill whistle, and pronounced some wordaloud, several times. What the word was, Mr. Pickwick could notdistinguish; but he rather inferred that it must be some nickname whichdistinguished Mr. Martin, from the fact of a great number of gentlemenon the ground below, immediately proceeding to cry 'Butcher!' inimitation of the tone in which that useful class of society are wont,diurnally, to make their presence known at area railings.
Subsequent occurrences confirmed the accuracy of Mr. Pickwick'simpression; for, in a few seconds, a gentleman, prematurely broad forhis years, clothed in a professional blue jean frock and top-boots withcircular toes, entered the room nearly out of breath, closely followedby another gentleman in very shabby black, and a sealskin cap. Thelatter gentleman, who fastened his coat all the way up to his chin bymeans of a pin and a button alternately, had a very coarse red face, andlooked like a drunken chaplain; which, indeed, he was.
These two gentlemen having by turns perused Mr. Pickwick's billet, theone expressed his opinion that it was 'a rig,' and the other hisconviction that it was 'a go.' Having recorded their feelings in thesevery intelligible terms, they looked at Mr. Pickwick and each other inawkward silence.
'It's an aggravating thing, just as we got the beds so snug,' said thechaplain, looking at three dirty mattresses, each rolled up in ablanket; which occupied one corner of the room during the day, andformed a kind of slab, on which were placed an old cracked basin, ewer,and soap-dish, of common yellow earthenware, with a blue flower--'veryaggravating.'
Mr. Martin expressed the same opinion in rather stronger terms; Mr.Simpson, after having let a variety of expletive adjectives loose uponsociety without any substantive to accompany them, tucked up hissleeves, and began to wash the greens for dinner.
While this was going on, Mr. Pickwick had been eyeing the room, whichwas filthily dirty, and smelt intolerably close. There was no vestige ofeither carpet, curtain, or blind. There was not even a closet in it.Unquestionably there were but few things to put away, if there had beenone; but, however few in number, or small in individual amount, still,remnants of loaves and pieces of cheese, and damp towels, and scrags ofmeat, and articles of wearing apparel, and mutilated crockery, andbellows without nozzles, and toasting-forks without prongs, do presentsomewhat of an uncomfortable appearance when they are scattered aboutthe floor of a small apartment, which is the common sitting and sleepingroom of three idle men.
'I suppose this can be managed somehow,' said the butcher, after apretty long silence. 'What will you take to go out?'
I beg your pardon,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'What did you say? I hardlyunderstand you.'
'What will you take to be paid out?' said the butcher. 'The regularchummage is two-and-six. Will you take three bob?'
'And a bender,' suggested the clerical gentleman.
'Well, I don't mind that; it's only twopence a piece more,' said Mr.Martin. 'What do you say, now? We'll pay you out for three-and-sixpencea week. Come!'
'And stand a gallon of beer down,' chimed in Mr. Simpson. 'There!'
'And drink it on the spot,' said the chaplain. 'Now!'
'I really am so wholly ignorant of the rules of this place,' returnedMr. Pickwick, 'that I do not yet comprehend you. Can I live anywhereelse? I thought I could not.'
At this inquiry Mr. Martin looked, with a countenance of excessivesurprise, at his two friends, and then each gentleman pointed with hisright thumb over his left shoulder. This action imperfectly described inwords by the very feeble term of 'over the left,' when performed by anynumber of ladies or gentlemen who are accustomed to act in unison, has avery graceful and airy effect; its expression is one of light andplayful sarcasm.
'_Can _you!' repeated Mr. Martin, with a smile of pity.
'Well, if I knew as little of life as that, I'd eat my hat and swallowthe buckle whole,' said the clerical gentleman.
'So would I,' added the sporting one solemnly.
After this introductory preface, the three chums informed Mr. Pickwick,in a breath, that money was, in the Fleet, just what money was out ofit; that it would instantly procure him almost anything he desired; andthat, supposing he had it, and had no objection to spend it, if he onlysignified his wish to have a room to himself, he might take possessionof one, furnished and fitted to boot, in half an hour's time.
With this the parties separated, very much to their common satisfaction;Mr. Pickwick once more retracing his steps to the lodge, and the threecompanions adjourning to the coffee-room, there to spend the fiveshillings which the clerical gentleman had, with admirable prudence andforesight, borrowed of him for the purpose.
'I knowed it!' said Mr. Roker, with a chuckle, when Mr. Pickwick statedthe object with which he had returned. 'Didn't I say so, Neddy?'
The philosophical owner of the universal penknife growled anaffirmative.
'I knowed you'd want a room for yourself, bless you!' said Mr. Roker.'Let me see. You'll want some furniture. You'll hire that of me, Isuppose? That's the reg'lar thing.'
'With great pleasure,' replied Mr. Pickwick.
'There's a capital room up in the coffee-room flight, that belongs to aChancery prisoner,' said Mr. Roker. 'It'll stand you in a pound a week.I suppose you don't mind that?'
'Not at all,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Just step there with me,' said Roker, taking up his hat with great
alacrity; 'the matter's settled in five minutes. Lord! why didn't yousay at first that you was willing to come down handsome?'
The matter was soon arranged, as the turnkey had foretold. The Chanceryprisoner had been there long enough to have lost his friends, fortune,home, and happiness, and to have acquired the right of having a room tohimself. As he laboured, however, under the inconvenience of oftenwanting a morsel of bread, he eagerly listened to Mr. Pickwick'sproposal to rent the apartment, and readily covenanted and agreed toyield him up the sole and undisturbed possession thereof, inconsideration of the weekly payment of twenty shillings; from which fundhe furthermore contracted to pay out any person or persons that might bechummed upon it.
As they struck the bargain, Mr. Pickwick surveyed him with a painfulinterest. He was a tall, gaunt, cadaverous man, in an old greatcoat andslippers, with sunken cheeks, and a restless, eager eye. His lips werebloodless, and his bones sharp and thin. God help him! the iron teeth ofconfinement and privation had been slowly filing him down for twentyyears.
'And where will you live meanwhile, Sir?' said Mr. Pickwick, as he laidthe amount of the first week's rent, in advance, on the tottering table.
The man gathered up the money with a trembling hand, and replied that hedidn't know yet; he must go and see where he could move his bed to.
'I am afraid, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand gently andcompassionately on his arm--'I am afraid you will have to live in somenoisy, crowded place. Now, pray, consider this room your own when youwant quiet, or when any of your friends come to see you.'
'Friends!' interposed the man, in a voice which rattled in his throat.'if I lay dead at the bottom of the deepest mine in the world; tightscrewed down and soldered in my coffin; rotting in the dark and filthyditch that drags its slime along, beneath the foundations of thisprison; I could not be more forgotten or unheeded than I am here. I am adead man; dead to society, without the pity they bestow on those whosesouls have passed to judgment. Friends to see me! My God! I have sunk,from the prime of life into old age, in this place, and there is not oneto raise his hand above my bed when I lie dead upon it, and say, "It isa blessing he is gone!"'
The excitement, which had cast an unwonted light over the man's face,while he spoke, subsided as he concluded; and pressing his witheredhands together in a hasty and disordered manner, he shuffled from theroom.
'Rides rather rusty,' said Mr. Roker, with a smile. 'Ah! they're likethe elephants. They feel it now and then, and it makes 'em wild!'
Having made this deeply-sympathising remark, Mr. Roker entered upon hisarrangements with such expedition, that in a short time the room wasfurnished with a carpet, six chairs, a table, a sofa bedstead, a tea-kettle, and various small articles, on hire, at the very reasonable rateof seven-and-twenty shillings and sixpence per week.
'Now, is there anything more we can do for you?' inquired Mr. Roker,looking round with great satisfaction, and gaily chinking the firstweek's hire in his closed fist.
'Why, yes,' said Mr. Pickwick, who had been musing deeply for some time.'Are there any people here who run on errands, and so forth?'
'Outside, do you mean?' inquired Mr. Roker.
'Yes. I mean who are able to go outside. Not prisoners.'
'Yes, there is,' said Roker. 'There's an unfortunate devil, who has gota friend on the poor side, that's glad to do anything of that sort. He'sbeen running odd jobs, and that, for the last two months. Shall I sendhim?'
'If you please,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick. 'Stay; no. The poor side, yousay? I should like to see it. I'll go to him myself.'
The poor side of a debtor's prison is, as its name imports, that inwhich the most miserable and abject class of debtors are confined. Aprisoner having declared upon the poor side, pays neither rent norchummage. His fees, upon entering and leaving the jail, are reduced inamount, and he becomes entitled to a share of some small quantities offood: to provide which, a few charitable persons have, from time totime, left trifling legacies in their wills. Most of our readers willremember, that, until within a very few years past, there was a kind ofiron cage in the wall of the Fleet Prison, within which was posted someman of hungry looks, who, from time to time, rattled a money-box, andexclaimed in a mournful voice, 'Pray, remember the poor debtors; prayremember the poor debtors.' The receipts of this box, when there wereany, were divided among the poor prisoners; and the men on the poor siderelieved each other in this degrading office.
Although this custom has been abolished, and the cage is now boarded up,the miserable and destitute condition of these unhappy persons remainsthe same. We no longer suffer them to appeal at the prison gates to thecharity and compassion of the passersby; but we still leave unblottedthe leaves of our statute book, for the reverence and admiration ofsucceeding ages, the just and wholesome law which declares that thesturdy felon shall be fed and clothed, and that the penniless debtorshall be left to die of starvation and nakedness. This is no fiction.Not a week passes over our head, but, in every one of our prisons fordebt, some of these men must inevitably expire in the slow agonies ofwant, if they were not relieved by their fellow-prisoners.
Turning these things in his mind, as he mounted the narrow staircase atthe foot of which Roker had left him, Mr. Pickwick gradually workedhimself to the boiling-over point; and so excited was he with hisreflections on this subject, that he had burst into the room to which hehad been directed, before he had any distinct recollection, either ofthe place in which he was, or of the object of his visit.
The general aspect of the room recalled him to himself at once; but hehad no sooner cast his eye on the figure of a man who was brooding overthe dusty fire, than, letting his hat fall on the floor, he stoodperfectly fixed and immovable with astonishment.
Yes; in tattered garments, and without a coat; his common calico shirt,yellow and in rags; his hair hanging over his face; his features changedwith suffering, and pinched with famine--there sat Mr. Alfred Jingle;his head resting on his hands, his eyes fixed upon the fire, and hiswhole appearance denoting misery and dejection!
Near him, leaning listlessly against the wall, stood a strong-builtcountryman, flicking with a worn-out hunting-whip the top-boot thatadorned his right foot; his left being thrust into an old slipper.Horses, dogs, and drink had brought him there, pell-mell. There was arusty spur on the solitary boot, which he occasionally jerked into theempty air, at the same time giving the boot a smart blow, and mutteringsome of the sounds by which a sportsman encourages his horse. He wasriding, in imagination, some desperate steeplechase at that moment. Poorwretch! He never rode a match on the swiftest animal in his costly stud,with half the speed at which he had torn along the course that ended inthe Fleet.
On the opposite side of the room an old man was seated on a small woodenbox, with his eyes riveted on the floor, and his face settled into anexpression of the deepest and most hopeless despair. A young girl--hislittle grand-daughter--was hanging about him, endeavouring, with athousand childish devices, to engage his attention; but the old manneither saw nor heard her. The voice that had been music to him, and theeyes that had been light, fell coldly on his senses. His limbs wereshaking with disease, and the palsy had fastened on his mind.
There were two or three other men in the room, congregated in a littleknot, and noiselessly talking among themselves. There was a lean andhaggard woman, too--a prisoner's wife--who was watering, with greatsolicitude, the wretched stump of a dried-up, withered plant, which, itwas plain to see, could never send forth a green leaf again--too true anemblem, perhaps, of the office she had come there to discharge.
Such were the objects which presented themselves to Mr. Pickwick's view,as he looked round him in amazement. The noise of some one stumblinghastily into the room, roused him. Turning his eyes towards the door,they encountered the new-comer; and in him, through his rags and dirt,he recognised the familiar features of Mr. Job Trotter.
'Mr. Pickwick!' exclaimed Job aloud.
'Eh?' said Jingle, starting from his seat.
&nb
sp; 'Mr ----! So it is--queer place--strange things--serves me right--very.'Mr. Jingle thrust his hands into the place where his trousers pocketsused to be, and, dropping his chin upon his breast, sank back into hischair.
Mr. Pickwick was affected; the two men looked so very miserable. Thesharp, involuntary glance Jingle had cast at a small piece of raw loinof mutton, which Job had brought in with him, said more of their reducedstate than two hours' explanation could have done. Mr. Pickwick lookedmildly at Jingle, and said--
'I should like to speak to you in private. Will you step out for aninstant?'
'Certainly,' said Jingle, rising hastily. 'Can't step far--no danger ofoverwalking yourself here--spike park--grounds pretty--romantic, but notextensive--open for public inspection--family always in town--housekeeper desperately careful--very.'
'You have forgotten your coat,' said Mr. Pickwick, as they walked out tothe staircase, and closed the door after them.
'Eh?' said Jingle. 'Spout--dear relation--uncle Tom--couldn't help it--must eat, you know. Wants of nature--and all that.'
'What do you mean?'
'Gone, my dear sir--last coat--can't help it. Lived on a pair of boots,whole fortnight. Silk umbrella--ivory handle--week--fact--honour--askJob--knows it.'
'Lived for three weeks upon a pair of boots, and a silk umbrella with anivory handle!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who had only heard of such thingsin shipwrecks or read of them in Constable's Miscellany.
'True,' said Jingle, nodding his head. 'Pawnbroker's shop--duplicateshere--small sums--mere nothing--all rascals.'
'Oh,' said Mr. Pickwick, much relieved by this explanation; 'Iunderstand you. You have pawned your wardrobe.'
'Everything--Job's too--all shirts gone--never mind--saves washing.Nothing soon--lie in bed--starve--die--inquest--little bone-house--poorprisoner--common necessaries--hush it up--gentlemen of the jury--warden's tradesmen--keep it snug--natural death--coroner's order--workhouse funeral--serve him right--all over--drop the curtain.'
Jingle delivered this singular summary of his prospects in life, withhis accustomed volubility, and with various twitches of the countenanceto counterfeit smiles. Mr. Pickwick easily perceived that hisrecklessness was assumed, and looking him full, but not unkindly, in theface, saw that his eyes were moist with tears.
'Good fellow,' said Jingle, pressing his hand, and turning his headaway. 'Ungrateful dog--boyish to cry--can't help it--bad fever--weak--ill--hungry. Deserved it all--but suffered much--very.' Wholly unable tokeep up appearances any longer, and perhaps rendered worse by the efforthe had made, the dejected stroller sat down on the stairs, and, coveringhis face with his hands, sobbed like a child.
'Come, come,' said Mr. Pickwick, with considerable emotion, 'we will seewhat can be done, when I know all about the matter. Here, Job; where isthat fellow?'
'Here, sir,' replied Job, presenting himself on the staircase. We havedescribed him, by the bye, as having deeply-sunken eyes, in the best oftimes. In his present state of want and distress, he looked as if thosefeatures had gone out of town altogether.
'Here, sir,' cried Job.
'Come here, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, trying to look stern, with fourlarge tears running down his waistcoat. 'Take that, sir.'
Take what? In the ordinary acceptation of such language, it should havebeen a blow. As the world runs, it ought to have been a sound, heartycuff; for Mr. Pickwick had been duped, deceived, and wronged by thedestitute outcast who was now wholly in his power. Must we tell thetruth? It was something from Mr. Pickwick's waistcoat pocket, whichchinked as it was given into Job's hand, and the giving of which,somehow or other imparted a sparkle to the eye, and a swelling to theheart, of our excellent old friend, as he hurried away.
Sam had returned when Mr. Pickwick reached his own room, and wasinspecting the arrangements that had been made for his comfort, with akind of grim satisfaction which was very pleasant to look upon. Having adecided objection to his master's being there at all, Mr. Wellerappeared to consider it a high moral duty not to appear too much pleasedwith anything that was done, said, suggested, or proposed.
'Well, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Well, sir,' replied Mr. Weller.
'Pretty comfortable now, eh, Sam?'
'Pretty vell, sir,' responded Sam, looking round him in a disparagingmanner.
'Have you seen Mr. Tupman and our other friends?'
'Yes, I _have _seen 'em, sir, and they're a-comin' to-morrow, and woswery much surprised to hear they warn't to come to-day,' replied Sam.
'You have brought the things I wanted?'
Mr. Weller in reply pointed to various packages which he had arranged,as neatly as he could, in a corner of the room.
'Very well, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, after a little hesitation; 'listento what I am going to say, Sam.'
'Cert'nly, Sir,' rejoined Mr. Weller; 'fire away, Sir.'
'I have felt from the first, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, with muchsolemnity, 'that this is not the place to bring a young man to.'
'Nor an old 'un neither, Sir,' observed Mr. Weller.
'You're quite right, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'but old men may come herethrough their own heedlessness and unsuspicion, and young men may bebrought here by the selfishness of those they serve. It is better forthose young men, in every point of view, that they should not remainhere. Do you understand me, Sam?'
'Vy no, Sir, I do _not_,' replied Mr. Weller doggedly.
'Try, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Vell, sir,' rejoined Sam, after a short pause, 'I think I see yourdrift; and if I do see your drift, it's my 'pinion that you're a-comin'it a great deal too strong, as the mail-coachman said to the snowstorm,ven it overtook him.'
'I see you comprehend me, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Independently of mywish that you should not be idling about a place like this, for years tocome, I feel that for a debtor in the Fleet to be attended by hismanservant is a monstrous absurdity. Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'for atime you must leave me.'
'Oh, for a time, eh, sir?' rejoined Mr. Weller rather sarcastically.
'Yes, for the time that I remain here,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Your wages Ishall continue to pay. Any one of my three friends will be happy to takeyou, were it only out of respect to me. And if I ever do leave thisplace, Sam,' added Mr. Pickwick, with assumed cheerfulness--'if I do, Ipledge you my word that you shall return to me instantly.'
'Now I'll tell you wot it is, Sir,' said Mr. Weller, in a grave andsolemn voice. 'This here sort o' thing won't do at all, so don't let'shear no more about it.'
I am serious, and resolved, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'You air, air you, sir?' inquired Mr. Weller firmly. 'Wery good, Sir;then so am I.'
Thus speaking, Mr. Weller fixed his hat on his head with greatprecision, and abruptly left the room.
'Sam!' cried Mr. Pickwick, calling after him, 'Sam! Here!'
But the long gallery ceased to re-echo the sound of footsteps. SamWeller was gone.