The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, v. 2 (of 2) Page 24

  CHAPTER XXII

  _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 nextmorning, and Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller having each taken his seat,the one inside and the other out, the postilion was duly directed torepair in the first instance to Mr. Bob Sawyer's house for the purposeof taking up Mr. Benjamin Allen.

  It was with feelings of no small astonishment, when the carriage drewup before the door with the red lamp, and the very legible inscriptionof "Sawyer, late Nockemorf," that Mr. Pickwick saw, on popping hishead out of the coach window, the boy in the grey livery very busilyengaged in putting up the shutters: the which, being an unusual andun-business-like proceeding at that hour in the morning, at oncesuggested to his mind two inferences; the one, that some good friendand patient of Mr. Bob Sawyer's was dead; the other, that Mr. BobSawyer himself was bankrupt.

  "What is the matter?" said Mr. Pickwick to the boy.

  "Nothing's the matter, sir," replied the boy, expanding his mouth tothe whole breadth of his countenance.

  "All right, all right!" cried Bob Sawyer, suddenly appearing at thedoor with a small leathern knapsack, limp and dirty, in one hand, and arough 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 itwas immediately stowed away, under the seat, by Sam, who regarded theproceeding with great admiration. This done, Mr. Bob Sawyer, with theassistance of the boy, forcibly worked himself into a rough coat, whichwas a few sizes too small for him, and then advancing to the coachwindow thrust in his head, and laughed boisterously.

  "What a start it is, isn't it?" cried Bob, wiping the tears out of hiseyes, with one of the cuffs of the rough coat.

  "My dear sir," said Mr. Pickwick, with some embarrassment, "I had noidea of your accompanying us."

  "No, that's just the very thing," replied Bob, seizing Mr. Pickwick bythe 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, youknow--that, and leaving the business to take care of itself, as itseems to have made up its mind not to take care of me." With thisexplanation of the phenomenon of the shutters, Mr. Bob Sawyer pointedto the shop, and relapsed into an ecstasy of mirth.

  "Bless me, you are surely not mad enough to think of leaving yourpatients without anybody to attend them!" remonstrated Mr. Pickwick ina very serious tone.

  "Why not?" asked Bob, in reply. "I shall save by it, you know. None ofthem ever pay. Besides," said Bob, lowering his voice to a confidentialwhisper, "they will be all the better for it; for, being nearly out ofdrugs, and not able to increase my account just now, I should have beenobliged to give them calomel all round, and it would have been certainto 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, andadded, less firmly than before:

  "But this chaise, my young friend, will only hold two; and I am pledgedto 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 billis to be wafered on the shop door: 'Sawyer, late Nockemorf. Inquireof Mrs. Cripps, over the way.' Mrs. Cripps is my boy's mother. 'Mr.Sawyer's very sorry,' says Mrs. Cripps, 'couldn't help it--fetchedaway early this morning to a consultation of the very first surgeonsin the country--couldn't do without him--would have him at anyprice--tremendous operation.' The fact is," said Bob in conclusion,"it'll do me more good than otherwise, I expect. If it gets into one ofthe 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 hispocket, jumped into the dickey, gave the word for starting, and did thewhole with such extraordinary precipitation, that before Mr. Pickwickhad well begun to consider whether Mr. Bob Sawyer ought to go or not,they were rolling away, with Mr. Bob Sawyer thoroughly established aspart 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, andconducted himself with becoming steadiness and gravity of demeanour;merely giving utterance to divers verbal witticisms for the exclusivebehoof and entertainment of Mr. Samuel Weller. But when they emergedon the open road, he threw off his green spectacles and his gravitytogether, and performed a great variety of practical jokes, which werecalculated to attract the attention of the passers-by, and to renderthe carriage and those it contained objects of more than ordinarycuriosity; the least conspicuous among these feats being, a mostvociferous imitation of a key-bugle, and the ostentatious display of acrimson silk pocket-handkerchief attached to a walking-stick, whichwas occasionally waved in the air with various gestures indicative ofsupremacy and defiance.

  "I wonder," said Mr. Pickwick, stopping in the midst of a most sedateconversation with Ben Allen, bearing reference to the numerous goodqualities of Mr. Winkle and his sister: "I wonder what all the peoplewe pass can see in us to make them stare so?"

  "It's a neat turn-out," replied Ben Allen, with something of pride inhis tone. "They're not used to see this sort of thing every day, Idaresay."

  "Possibly," replied Mr. Pickwick. "It may be so. Perhaps it is."

  Mr. Pickwick might very probably have reasoned himself into thebelief that it really was: had he not, just then happening to lookout of the coach window, observed that the looks of the passengersbetokened anything but respectful astonishment, and that varioustelegraphic communications appeared to be passing between them andsome persons outside the vehicle: whereupon it occurred to him thatthese demonstrations might be, in some remote degree, referable to thehumorous deportment of Mr. Robert Sawyer.

  "I hope," said Mr. Pickwick, "that our volatile friend is committing noabsurdities in that dickey behind?"

  "Oh dear no," replied Ben Allen. "Except when he's elevated, Bob's thequietest creature breathing."

  Here a prolonged imitation of a key-bugle broke upon the ear, succeededby cheers and screams, all of which evidently proceeded from thethroat and lungs of the quietest creature breathing, or in plainerdesignation, of Mr. Bob Sawyer himself.

  Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Ben Allen looked expressively at each other, andthe former gentleman taking off his hat, and leaning out of the coachwindow until nearly the whole of his waistcoat was outside it, was atlength enabled to catch a glimpse of his facetious friend.

  Mr. Bob Sawyer was seated: not in the dickey, but on the roof ofthe chaise, with his legs as far asunder as they would convenientlygo, wearing Mr. Samuel Weller's hat on one side of his head, andbearing, in one hand, a most enormous sandwich, while, in the other,he supported a goodly-sized case-bottle, to both of which he appliedhimself with intense relish: varying the monotony of the occupation byan occasional howl, or the interchange of some lively badinage withany passing stranger. The crimson flag was carefully tied in an erectposition to the rail of the dickey; and Mr. Samuel Weller, decoratedwith Bob Sawyer's hat, was seated in the centre thereof, discussing atwin sandwich, with an animated countenance, the expression of whichbetokened his entire and perfect approval of the whole arrangement.

  This was enough to irritate a gentleman of Mr. Pickwick's sense ofpropriety, but it was not the whole extent of the aggravation, fora stage-coach, full inside and out, was meeting them at the moment,and the astonishment of the passengers was very palpably evinced. Thecongratulations of an Irish family, too, who were keeping up withthe chaise, and begging all the t
ime, were of a rather boisterousdescription; especially those of its male head, who appeared toconsider the display as part and parcel of some political or otherprocession 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 chaisewith 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 scandalousred handkerchief, I beg. I insist, sir. Sam, take it down."

  Before Sam could interpose, Mr. Bob Sawyer gracefully struck hiscolours, and having put them in his pocket, nodded in a courteousmanner to Mr. Pickwick, wiped the mouth of the case-bottle, and appliedit to his own; thereby informing him, without any unnecessary wasteof words, that he devoted that draught to wishing him all manner ofhappiness and prosperity. Having done this, Bob replaced the cork withgreat care, and looking benignantly down on Mr. Pickwick, took a largebite out of the sandwich, and smiled.

  "Come," said Mr. Pickwick, whose momentary anger was not quite proofagainst Bob's immovable self-possession, "pray let us have no more ofthis absurdity."

  "No, no," replied Bob, once more exchanging hats with Mr. Weller; "Ididn't mean to do it, only I got so enlivened with the ride that Icouldn't help it."

  "Think of the look of the thing," expostulated Mr. Pickwick; "have someregard to appearances."

  "Oh, certainly," said Bob, "it's not the sort of thing at all. Allover, governor."

  Satisfied with this assurance, Mr. Pickwick once more drew his headinto the chaise and pulled up the glass; but he had scarcely resumedthe conversation which Mr. Bob Sawyer had interrupted, when he wassomewhat startled by the apparition of a small dark body, of an oblongform, 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 inquestion through his spectacles with some interest; "I rather think itbelongs to Bob."

  The impression was perfectly accurate; for Mr. Bob Sawyer, havingattached the case-bottle to the end of the walking-stick, was batteringthe window with it in token of his wish that his friends inside wouldpartake of its contents, in all good fellowship and harmony.

  "What's to be done?" said Mr. Pickwick, looking at the bottle. "Thisproceeding is more absurd than the other."

  "I think it would be best to take it in," replied Mr. Ben Allen; "itwould 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," repliedBen.

  This advice quite coinciding with his own opinion, Mr. Pickwick gentlylet down the window and disengaged the bottle from the stick: uponwhich the latter was drawn up, and Mr. Bob Sawyer was heard to laughheartily.

  "What a merry dog it is!" said Mr. Pickwick, looking round at hiscompanion 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 anabstracted mood, uncorked the bottle.

  "What is it?" inquired Ben Allen, carelessly.

  "I don't know," replied Mr. Pickwick, with equal carelessness. "Itsmells, I think, like milk-punch."

  "Oh, indeed?" said Ben.

  "I _think_ so," rejoined Mr. Pickwick, very properly guarding himselfagainst the possibility of stating an untruth: "mind, I could notundertake 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 toknow, 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. Ohyes!" said Mr. Pickwick, after a second taste. "It _is_ punch."

  Mr. Ben Allen looked at Mr. Pickwick; Mr. Pickwick looked at Mr. BenAllen; Mr. Ben Allen smiled; Mr. Pickwick did not.

  "It would serve him right," said the last-named gentleman, with someseverity, "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!" Withthese words, that excellent person took a most energetic pull at thebottle, and handed it to Ben Allen, who was not slow to imitate hisexample. The smiles became mutual, and the milk-punch was gradually andcheerfully disposed of.

  "After all," said Mr. Pickwick, as he drained the last drop, "hispranks are really very amusing: very entertaining indeed."

  "You may say that," rejoined Mr. Ben Allen. In proof of Bob Sawyer'sbeing one of the funniest fellows alive, he proceeded to entertain Mr.Pickwick with a long and circumstantial account how that gentleman oncedrank himself into a fever and got his head shaved; the relation ofwhich pleasant and agreeable history was only stopped by the stoppageof 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 atthe window.

  "Dine!" said Mr. Pickwick. "Why, we have only come nineteen miles, andhave eighty-seven and a half to go."

  "Just the reason why we should take something to enable us to bear upagainst the fatigue," remonstrated Mr. Bob Sawyer.

  "Oh, it's quite impossible to dine at half-past eleven o'clock in theday," 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 anhour. Tell them to put everything they have cold on the table and somebottled ale, and let us taste your very best Madeira." Issuing theseorders with monstrous importance and bustle, Mr. Bob Sawyer at oncehurried into the house to superintend the arrangements; in less thanfive minutes he returned and declared them to be excellent.

  The quality of the lunch fully justified the eulogium which Bob hadpronounced, and very great justice was done to it, not only by thatgentleman, but Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Pickwick also. Under the auspicesof the three, the bottled ale and the Madeira were promptly disposedof; and when (the horses being once more put to) they resumed theirseats, with the case-bottle full of the best substitute for milk-punchthat could be procured on so short a notice, the key-bugle sounded, andthe red flag waved, without the slightest opposition on Mr. Pickwick'spart.

  At the Hop Pole at Tewkesbury, they stopped to dine; upon whichoccasion there was more bottled ale, with some more Madeira, and someport besides; and here the case-bottle was replenished for the thirdtime. Under the influence of these combined stimulants, Mr. Pickwickand 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 tolook out of the window. The straggling cottages by the roadside, thedingy hue of every object visible, the murky atmosphere, the pathsof cinders and brick-dust, the deep-red glow of furnace fires in thedistance, the volumes of dense smoke issuing heavily forth from thehigh toppling chimneys, blackening and obscuring everything around; theglare of distant lights, the ponderous waggons which toiled along theroad, laden with clashing rods of iron, or piled with heavy goods--allbetokened their rapid approach to the great working town of Birmingham.

  As they rattled through the narrow thoroughfares leading to the heartof the turmoil, the sights and sounds of earnest occupation struck moreforcibly on the senses. The streets were thronged with working-people.The hum of labour resounded from every house, lights gleamed from thelong casement windows in the attic sto
ries, and the whirl of wheels andnoise of machinery shook the trembling walls. The fires, whose lurid,sullen light had been visible for miles, blazed fiercely up, in thegreat works and factories of the town. The din of hammers, the rushingof steam, and the dead heavy clanking of engines, was the harsh musicwhich arose from every quarter.

  The postboy was driving briskly through the open streets, and past thehandsome and well-lighted shops which intervene between the outskirtsof the town and the Old Royal Hotel, before Mr. Pickwick had begun toconsider the very difficult and delicate nature of the commission whichhad carried him thither.

  The delicate nature of this commission, and the difficulty of executingit in a satisfactory manner, were by no means lessened by the voluntarycompanionship of Mr. Bob Sawyer. Truth to tell, Mr. Pickwick felt thathis presence on the occasion, however considerate and gratifying, wasby no means an honour he would willingly have sought; in fact, he wouldcheerfully have given a reasonable sum of money to have had Mr. BobSawyer removed to any place at not less than fifty miles distance,without delay.

  Mr. Pickwick had never held any personal communication with Mr. Winklesenior, although he had once or twice corresponded with him by letter,and returned satisfactory answers to his inquiries concerning the moralcharacter and behaviour of his son; he felt nervously sensible thatto wait upon him, for the first time, attended by Bob Sawyer and BenAllen, both slightly fuddled, was not the most ingenious and likelymeans that could have been hit upon to prepossess him in his favour.

  "However," said Mr. Pickwick, endeavouring to reassure himself, "I mustdo the best I can. I must see him to-night, for I faithfully promisedto do so. If they persist in accompanying me, I must make the interviewas 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 atthe door of the Old Royal. Ben Allen having been partially awakenedfrom a stupendous sleep, and dragged out by the collar by Mr. SamuelWeller, Mr. Pickwick was enabled to alight. They were shown to acomfortable apartment, and Mr. Pickwick at once propounded a questionto 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 residenceis not--oh dear no, sir, _not_ five hundred yards, sir." Here thewaiter blew a candle out, and made a feint of lighting it again, inorder to afford Mr. Pickwick an opportunity of asking any furtherquestions, if he felt so disposed.

  "Take anything now, sir?" said the waiter, lighting the candle indesperation 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 thenstopping 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 anoverwhelming weight, by having at last got an order for something, thewaiter imperceptibly melted away. Waiters never walk or run. They havea peculiar and mysterious power of skimming out of rooms, which othermortals possess not.

  Some slight symptoms of vitality having been awakened in Mr. Ben Allenby the soda water, he suffered himself to be prevailed upon to wash hisface and hands, and to submit to be brushed by Sam. Mr. Pickwick andBob Sawyer having also repaired the disorder which the journey had madein their apparel, the three started forth, arm in arm, to Mr. Winkle's;Bob Sawyer impregnating the atmosphere with tobacco smoke as he walkedalong.

  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 abrass plate upon it, bearing, in fat Roman capitals, the words, "Mr.Winkle." The steps were very white, and the bricks were very red, andthe house was very clean; and here stood Mr. Pickwick, Mr. BenjaminAllen, and Mr. Bob Sawyer, as the clock struck ten.

  A smart servant girl answered the door, and started on beholding thethree 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 amsorry to trouble him at so late an hour; but I am anxious to see himto-night, and have only just arrived."

  The girl looked timidly at Mr. Bob Sawyer, who was expressing hisadmiration of her personal charms by a variety of wonderful grimaces;and casting an eye at the hats and great-coats which hung in thepassage, 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 halfdressing-room, in which the principal useful and ornamental articlesof furniture were a desk, a wash-hand stand and shaving glass, aboot-rack and boot-jack, a high stool, four chairs, a table, and an oldeight-day clock. Over the mantelpiece were the sunken doors of an ironsafe, while a couple of hanging shelves for books, an almanack, andseveral 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, "butyou was quite strangers to me; and we have such a many trampers thatonly 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 stretchingforth his arms, and skipping from side to side, as if to prevent theyoung lady's leaving the room.

  The young lady was not at all softened by these allurements, for she atonce expressed her opinion that Mr. Bob Sawyer was an "odous creetur;"and, on his becoming rather more pressing in his attentions, imprintedher fair fingers upon his face, and bounced out of the room with manyexpressions of aversion and contempt.

  Deprived of the young lady's society, Mr. Bob Sawyer proceededto divert himself by peeping into the desk, looking into all thetable-drawers, feigning to pick the lock of the iron safe, turning thealmanack with its face to the wall, trying on the boots of Mr. Winklesenior over his own, and making several other humorous experiments uponthe furniture, all of which afforded Mr. Pickwick unspeakable horrorand agony, and yielded Mr. Bob Sawyer proportionate delight.

  At length the door opened, and a little old gentleman in asnuff-coloured suit, with a head and face the precise counterpart ofthose belonging to Mr. Winkle junior, excepting that he was ratherbald, trotted into the room with Mr. Pickwick's card in one hand, and asilver candlestick in the other.

  "Mr. Pickwick, sir, how do you do?" said Winkle the elder, putting downthe candlestick and proffering his hand. "Hope I see you well, sir?Glad to see you. Be seated, Mr. Pickwick, I beg, sir. This gentlemanis----"

  "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.

  _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 nearrelative or, I should rather say, a very particular friend of yourson's. His name is Allen."

  "_That_ gentleman?" inquired Mr. Winkle, pointing with the card towardsBen Allen, who had fallen asleep in an attitude which left nothing ofhim visible but his spine and his coat collar.

  Mr. Pickwick was on the point of replying to the question, and recitingMr. Benjamin Allen's name and honourable distinctions at full length,when the sprightly Mr. Bob Sawyer, with a view of rousing his friendto a sense of his situation, inflicted a star
tling pinch upon thefleshy 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 Allenadvanced and, shaking Mr. Winkle most affectionately by both hands forabout five minutes, murmured, in some half-intelligible fragments ofsentences, the great delight he felt in seeing him, and a hospitableinquiry whether he felt disposed to take anything after his walk, orwould prefer waiting "till dinner time;" which done, he sat down andgazed about him with a petrified stare, as if he had not the remotestidea where he was, which indeed he had not.

  All this was most embarrassing to Mr. Pickwick, the more especially asMr. Winkle senior evinced palpable astonishment at the eccentric--notto say extraordinary--behaviour of his two companions. To bring thematter to an issue at once, he drew a letter from his pocket, andpresenting 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 hisfuture happiness and welfare. Will you oblige me by giving it thecalmest and coolest perusal, and by discussing the subject afterwardswith me, in the tone and spirit in which alone it ought to bediscussed? You may judge of the importance of your decision to yourson, and his intense anxiety upon the subject, by my waiting upon youwithout any previous warning, at so late an hour; and," added Mr.Pickwick, glancing slightly at his two companions, "and under suchunfavourable circumstances."

  With this prelude, Mr. Pickwick placed four closely written sides ofextra superfine wire-woven penitence in the hands of the astoundedMr. Winkle senior. Then reseating himself in his chair, he watchedhis looks and manner: anxiously, it is true, but with the open frontof a gentleman who feels he has taken no part which he need excuse orpalliate.

  The old wharfinger turned the letter over; looked at the front, back,and sides; made a microscopic examination of the fat little boy on theseal; raised his eyes to Mr. Pickwick's face; and then, seating himselfon 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 forsome minutes, placed his hands upon his knees, and made a face afterthe portrait of the late Mr. Grimaldi, as clown. It so happened thatMr. Winkle senior, instead of being deeply engaged in reading theletter, as Mr. Bob Sawyer thought, chanced to be looking over thetop of it at no less a person than Mr. Bob Sawyer himself; rightlyconjecturing that the face aforesaid was made in ridicule and derisionof his own person, he fixed his eyes on Bob with such expressivesternness, that the late Mr. Grimaldi's lineaments gradually resolvedthemselves into a very fine expression of humility and confusion.

  "Did you speak, sir?" inquired Mr. Winkle senior, after an awfulsilence.

  "No, sir," replied Bob, with no remains of the clown about him, saveand 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 indignantemphasis. "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. Havingfrowned upon the abashed Bob with great magnificence, the old gentlemanagain 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 thefirst page to the top line of the second, and from the bottom of thesecond to the top of the third, and from the bottom of the third tothe top of the fourth; but not the slightest alteration of countenanceafforded a clue to the feelings with which he received the announcementof his son's marriage, which Mr. Pickwick knew was in the very firsthalf-dozen lines.

  He read the letter to the last word; folded it again with all thecarefulness and precision of a man of business; and, just when Mr.Pickwick expected some great outbreak of feeling, dipped a pen inthe inkstand, and said as quietly as if he were speaking on the mostordinary 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 theletter; and then, placing it in the desk, which he locked, said as hegot 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 inindignant amazement. "Nothing else! Have you no opinion to expresson this momentous event in our young friend's life? No assurance toconvey to him, through me, of the continuance of your affection andprotection? Nothing to say which will cheer and sustain him, and theanxious girl who looks to him for comfort and support? My dear sir,consider."

  "I will consider," replied the old gentleman. "I have nothing to sayjust now. I am a man of business, Mr. Pickwick. I never commit myselfhastily in any affair, and from what I see of this, I by no means likethe appearance of it. A thousand pounds is not much, Mr. Pickwick."

  "You're very right, sir," interposed Ben Allen, just awake enough toknow that he had spent _his_ thousand pounds without the smallestdifficulty. "You're an intelligent man. Bob, he's a very knowing fellowthis."

  "I am very happy to find that _you_ do me the justice to make theadmission, sir," said Mr. Winkle senior, looking contemptuously at BenAllen, 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 seesomething of men and manners (which he has done under your auspices),so that he might not enter into life a mere boarding-school milk-sopto 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, hehas no call to be surprised. He shall hear from me, Mr. Pickwick. Goodnight, sir. Margaret, open the door."

  All this time, Bob Sawyer had been nudging Mr. Ben Allen to saysomething on the right side; Ben accordingly now burst, without theslightest preliminary notice, into a brief but impassioned piece ofeloquence.

  "Sir," said Mr. Ben Allen, staring at the old gentleman, out of a pairof very dim and languid eyes, and working his right arm vehemently upand down, "you--you ought to be ashamed of yourself."

  "As the lady's brother, of course you are an excellent judge of thequestion," retorted Mr. Winkle senior. "There; that's enough. Pray sayno more, Mr. Pickwick. Good night, gentlemen!"

  With these words the old gentleman took up the candlestick, and openingthe room door, politely motioned towards the passage.

  "You will regret this, sir," said Mr. Pickwick, setting his teeth closetogether to keep down his choler; for he felt how important the effectmight prove to his young friend.

  "I am at present of a different opinion," calmly replied Mr. Winklesenior. "Once again, gentlemen, I wish you a good night."

  Mr. Pickwick walked, with angry strides, into the street. Mr. BobSawyer, completely quelled by the decision of the old gentleman'smanner, took the same course. Mr. Ben Allen's hat rolled down the stepsimmediately afterwards, and Mr. Ben Allen's body followed it directly.The whole party went silent and supperless to bed; and Mr. Pickwickthought, just before he fell asleep, that if he had known Mr. Winklesenior had been quite so much of a man of business, it was extremelyprobable he might never have waited upon him, on such an errand.