THE FIRST DAY’S JOURNEY, AND THE FIRSTEVENING’S ADVENTURES; WITH THEIR CONSEQUENCES hat punctual servant of all work, the sun, had just risen,and begun to strike a light on the morning of thethirteenth of May, one thousand eight hundred andtwenty-seven, when Mr. Samuel Pickwick burst like another sunfrom his slumbers, threw open his chamber window, and lookedout upon the world beneath. Goswell Street was at his feet,Goswell Street was on his right hand―as far as the eye couldreach, Goswell Street extended on his left; and the opposite side ofGoswell Street was over the way. ‘Such,’ thought Mr. Pickwick,‘are the narrow views of those philosophers who, content withexamining the things that lie before them, look not to the truthswhich are hidden beyond. As well might I be content to gaze onGoswell Street for ever, without one effort to penetrate to thehidden countries which on every side surround it.’ And havinggiven vent to this beautiful reflection, Mr. Pickwick proceeded toput himself into his clothes, and his clothes into his portmanteau.

　　Great men are seldom over scrupulous in the arrangement of theirattire; the operation of shaving, dressing, and coffee-imbibing wassoon performed; and, in another hour, Mr. Pickwick, with hisportmanteau in his hand, his telescope in his greatcoat pocket, andhis note-book in his waistcoat, ready for the reception of anydiscoveries worthy of being noted down, had arrived at the coach-stand in St. Martin’s-le-Grand. ‘Cab!’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Here you are, sir,’ shouted a strange specimen of the humanrace, in a sackcloth coat, and apron of the same, who, with a brasslabel and number round his neck, looked as if he were cataloguedin some collection of rarities. This was the waterman. ‘Here youare, sir. Now, then, fust cab!’ And the first cab having been fetchedfrom the public-house, where he had been smoking his first pipe,Mr. Pickwick and his portmanteau were thrown into the vehicle.

　　‘Golden Cross,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Only a bob’s vorth, Tommy,’ cried the driver sulkily, for theinformation of his friend the waterman, as the cab drove off.

　　‘How old is that horse, my friend?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick,rubbing his nose with the shilling he had reserved for the fare.

　　‘Forty-two,’ replied the driver, eyeing him askant.

　　‘What!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand upon his note-book. The driver reiterated his former statement. Mr. Pickwicklooked very hard at the man’s face, but his features wereimmovable, so he noted down the fact forthwith. ‘And how long doyou keep him out at a time?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, searching forfurther information.

　　‘Two or three veeks,’ replied the man.

　　‘Weeks!’ said Mr. Pickwick in astonishment, and out came thenote-book again.

　　‘He lives at Pentonwil when he’s at home,’ observed the drivercoolly, ‘but we seldom takes him home, on account of hisweakness.’

　　‘On account of his weakness!’ reiterated the perplexed Mr.

　　Pickwick.

　　‘He always falls down when he’s took out o’ the cab,’ continuedthe driver, ‘but when he’s in it, we bears him up werry tight, andtakes him in werry short, so as he can’t werry well fall down; andwe’ve got a pair o’ precious large wheels on, so ven he does move,they run after him, and he must go on―he can’t help it.’

　　Mr. Pickwick entered every word of this statement in his note-book, with the view of communicating it to the club, as a singularinstance of the tenacity of life in horses under tryingcircumstances. The entry was scarcely completed when theyreached the Golden Cross. Down jumped the driver, and out gotMr. Pickwick. Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle, whohad been anxiously waiting the arrival of their illustrious leader,crowded to welcome him.

　　‘Here’s your fare,’ said Mr. Pickwick, holding out the shilling tothe driver.

　　What was the learned man’s astonishment, when thatunaccountable person flung the money on the pavement, andrequested in figurative terms to be allowed the pleasure of fightinghim (Mr. Pickwick) for the amount!

　　‘You are mad,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

　　‘Or drunk,’ said Mr. Winkle.

　　‘Or both,’ said Mr. Tupman.

　　‘Come on!’ said the cab-driver, sparring away like clockwork.

　　‘Come on―all four on you.’

　　‘Here’s a lark!’ shouted half a dozen hackney coachmen. ‘Go tovork, Sam!―and they crowded with great glee round the party.

　　‘What’s the row, Sam?’ inquired one gentleman in black calicosleeves.

　　‘Row!’ replied the cabman, ‘what did he want my number for?’

　　‘I didn’t want your number,’ said the astonished Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘What did you take it for, then?’ inquired the cabman.

　　‘I didn’t take it,’ said Mr. Pickwick indignantly.

　　‘Would anybody believe,’ continued the cab-driver, appealing tothe crowd, ‘would anybody believe as an informer ’ud go about ina man’s cab, not only takin’ down his number, but ev’ry word hesays into the bargain’ (a light flashed upon Mr. Pickwick―it wasthe note-book).

　　‘Did he though?’ inquired another cabman.

　　‘Yes, did he,’ replied the first; ‘and then arter aggerawatin’ meto assault him, gets three witnesses here to prove it. But I’ll give ithim, if I’ve six months for it. Come on!’ and the cabman dashed hishat upon the ground, with a reckless disregard of his own privateproperty, and knocked Mr. Pickwick’s spectacles off, and followedup the attack with a blow on Mr. Pickwick’s nose, and another onMr. Pickwick’s chest, and a third in Mr. Snodgrass’s eye, and afourth, by way of variety, in Mr. Tupman’s waistcoat, and thendanced into the road, and then back again to the pavement, andfinally dashed the whole temporary supply of breath out of Mr.

　　Winkle’s body; and all in half a dozen seconds.

　　‘Where’s an officer?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

　　‘Put ’em under the pump,’ suggested a hot-pieman.

　　‘You shall smart for this,’ gasped Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Informers!’ shouted the crowd.

　　‘Come on,’ cried the cabman, who had been sparring withoutcessation the whole time.

　　The mob hitherto had been passive spectators of the scene, butas the intelligence of the Pickwickians being informers was spreadamong them, they began to canvass with considerable vivacity thepropriety of enforcing the heated pastry-vendor’s proposition: andthere is no saying what acts of personal aggression they mighthave committed, had not the affray been unexpectedly terminatedby the interposition of a new-comer.

　　‘What’s the fun?’ said a rather tall, thin, young man, in a greencoat, emerging suddenly from the coach-yard.

　　‘Informers!’ shouted the crowd again.

　　‘We are not,’ roared Mr. Pickwick, in a tone which, to anydispassionate listener, carried conviction with it. ‘Ain’t you,though―ain’t you?’ said the young man, appealing to Mr.

　　Pickwick, and making his way through the crowd by the infallibleprocess of elbowing the countenances of its component members.

　　That learned man in a few hurried words explained the realstate of the case.

　　‘Come along, then,’ said he of the green coat, lugging Mr.

　　Pickwick after him by main force, and talking the whole way.

　　Here, No. 924, take your fare, and take yourself off―respectablegentleman―know him well―none of your nonsense―this way,sir―where’s your friends?―all a mistake, I see―never mind―accidents will happen―best regulated families―never say die―down upon your luck―Pull him up―Put that in his pipe―like theflavour―damned rascals.’ And with a lengthened string of similarbroken sentences, delivered with extraordinary volubility, thestranger led the way to the traveller’s waiting-room, whither hewas closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and his disciples.

　　‘Here, waiter!’ shouted the stranger, ringing the bell withtremendous violence, ‘glasses round―brandy-and-water, hot andstrong, and sweet, and plenty,―eye damaged, sir? Waiter! rawbeef-steak for the gentleman’s eye―nothing like raw beef-steakfor a bruise, sir; cold lamp-post very good, but lamp-postinconvenient―damned odd standing in the open street half anhour, with your eye against a lamp-post―eh,―very good―ha! ha!’

　　And the stranger, without stopping to take breath, swallowed at adraught full half a pint of the reeking brandy-and-water, and flunghimself into a chair with as much ease as if nothing uncommonhad occurred.

　　While his three companions were busily engaged in profferingtheir thanks to their new acquaintance, Mr. Pickwick had leisureto examine his costume and appearance.

　　He was about the middle height, but the thinness of his body,and the length of his legs, gave him the appearance of being muchtaller. The green coat had been a smart dress garment in the daysof swallow-tails, but had evidently in those times adorned a muchshorter man than the stranger, for the soiled and faded sleevesscarcely reached to his wrists. It was buttoned closely up to hischin, at the imminent hazard of splitting the back; and an oldstock, without a vestige of shirt collar, ornamented his neck. Hisscanty black trousers displayed here and there those shinypatches which bespeak long service, and were strapped verytightly over a pair of patched and mended shoes, as if to concealthe dirty white stockings, which were nevertheless distinctlyvisible. His long, black hair escaped in negligent waves frombeneath each side of his old pinched-up hat; and glimpses of hisbare wrists might be observed between the tops of his gloves andthe cuffs of his coat sleeves. His face was thin and haggard; but anindescribable air of jaunty impudence and perfect self-possessionpervaded the whole man.

　　Such was the individual on whom Mr. Pickwick gazed throughhis spectacles (which he had fortunately recovered), and to whomhe proceeded, when his friends had exhausted themselves, toreturn in chosen terms his warmest thanks for his recentassistance.

　　‘Never mind,’ said the stranger, cutting the address very short,‘said enough―no more; smart chap that cabman―handled hisfives well; but if I’d been your friend in the green jemmy―damnme―punch his head,―’cod I would,―pig’s whisper―piemantoo,―no gammon.’

　　This coherent speech was interrupted by the entrance of theRochester coachman, to announce that ‘the Commodore’ was onthe point of starting.

　　‘Commodore!’ said the stranger, starting up, ‘my coach―placebooked,―one outside―leave you to pay for the brandy-and-water,―want change for a five,―bad silver―Brummagembuttons―won’t do―no go―eh?’ and he shook his head mostknowingly.

　　Now it so happened that Mr. Pickwick and his threecompanions had resolved to make Rochester their first halting-place too; and having intimated to their new-found acquaintancethat they were journeying to the same city, they agreed to occupythe seat at the back of the coach, where they could all sit together.

　　‘Up with you,’ said the stranger, assisting Mr. Pickwick on tothe roof with so much precipitation as to impair the gravity of thatgentleman’s deportment very materially.

　　‘Any luggage, sir?’ inquired the coachman. ‘Who―I? Brownpaper parcel here, that’s all―other luggage gone by water―packing-cases, nailed up―big as houses―heavy, heavy, damnedheavy,’ replied the stranger, as he forced into his pocket as muchas he could of the brown paper parcel, which presented mostsuspicious indications of containing one shirt and a handkerchief.

　　‘Heads, heads―take care of your heads!’ cried the loquaciousstranger, as they came out under the low archway, which in thosedays formed the entrance to the coach-yard. ‘Terrible place―dangerous work―other day―five children― mother―tall lady,eating sandwiches―forgot the arch―crash―knock―children lookround―mother’s head off―sandwich in her hand―no mouth toput it in―head of a family off―shocking, shocking! Looking atWhitehall, sir?―fine place―little window―somebody else’s headoff there, eh, sir?―he didn’t keep a sharp look-out enougheither―eh, sir, eh?’

　　‘I am ruminating,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘on the strange mutabilityof human affairs.’

　　‘Ah! I see―in at the palace door one day, out at the window thenext. Philosopher, sir?’

　　‘An observer of human nature, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Ah, so am I. Most people are when they’ve little to do and lessto get. Poet, sir?’

　　‘My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a strong poetic turn,’ said Mr.

　　Pickwick.

　　‘So have I,’ said the stranger. ‘Epic poem―ten thousand lines―revolution of July―composed it on the spot―Mars by day, Apolloby night―bang the field-piece, twang the lyre.’

　　‘You were present at that glorious scene, sir?’ said Mr.

　　Snodgrass.

　　‘Present! think I was;* fired a musket―fired with an idea―rushed into wine shop―wrote it down―back again―whiz, bang―another idea―wine shop again―pen and ink―back again―cutand slash―noble time, sir. Sportsman, sir?’ abruptly turning toMr. Winkle. [* A remarkable instance of the prophetic force of Mr.

　　Jingle’s imagination; this dialogue occurring in the year 1827, andthe Revolution in 1830.

　　‘A little, sir,’ replied that gentleman.

　　‘Fine pursuit, sir―fine pursuit.―Dogs, sir?’

　　‘Not just now,’ said Mr. Winkle.

　　‘Ah! you should keep dogs―fine animals―sagaciouscreatures―dog of my own once―pointer―surprising instinct―out shooting one day―entering inclosure―whistled―dogstopped―whistled again―Ponto―no go; stock still―called him―Ponto, Ponto―wouldn’t move―dog transfixed―staring at aboard―looked up, saw an inscription―“Gamekeeper has ordersto shoot all dogs found in this inclosure”―wouldn’t pass it―wonderful dog―valuable dog that―very.’

　　‘Singular circumstance that,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Will you allowme to make a note of it?’

　　‘Certainly, sir, certainly―hundred more anecdotes of the sameanimal.―Fine girl, sir’ (to Mr. Tracy Tupman, who had beenbestowing sundry anti-Pickwickian glances on a young lady by theroadside).

　　‘Very!’ said Mr. Tupman.

　　‘English girls not so fine as Spanish―noble creatures―jethair―black eyes―lovely forms―sweet creatures―beautiful.’

　　‘You have been in Spain, sir?’ said Mr. Tracy Tupman.

　　‘Lived there―ages.’

　　‘Many conquests, sir?’ inquired Mr. Tupman.

　　‘Conquests! Thousands. Don Bolaro Fizzgig―grandee―onlydaughter―Donna Christina―splendid creature―loved me todistraction―jealous father―high-souled daughter―handsomeEnglishman―Donna Christina in despair―prussic acid―stomachpump in my portmanteau―operation performed―old Bolaro inecstasies―consent to our union―join hands and floods of tears―romantic story―very.’

　　‘Is the lady in England now, sir?’ inquired Mr. Tupman, onwhom the description of her charms had produced a powerfulimpression.

　　‘Dead, sir―dead,’ said the stranger, applying to his right eyethe brief remnant of a very old cambric handkerchief. ‘Neverrecovered the stomach pump―undermined constitution―fell avictim.’

　　‘And her father?’ inquired the poetic Snodgrass.

　　‘Remorse and misery,’ replied the stranger. ‘Suddendisappearance―talk of the whole city―search made everywherewithout success―public fountain in the great square suddenlyceased playing―weeks elapsed―still a stoppage―workmenemployed to clean it―water drawn off―father-in-law discoveredsticking head first in the main pipe, with a full confession in hisright boot―took him out, and the fountain played away again, aswell as ever.’

　　‘Will you allow me to note that little romance down, sir?’ saidMr. Snodgrass, deeply affected.

　　‘Certainly, sir, certainly―fifty more if you like to hear ‘em―strange life mine―rather curious history―not extraordinary, butsingular.’

　　In this strain, with an occasional glass of ale, by way ofparenthesis, when the coach changed horses, did the strangerproceed, until they reached Rochester bridge, by which time thenote-books, both of Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Snodgrass, werecompletely filled with selections from his adventures.

　　‘Magnificent ruin!’ said Mr. Augustus Snodgrass, with all thepoetic fervour that distinguished him, when they came in sight ofthe fine old castle.

　　‘What a sight for an antiquarian!’ were the very words whichfell from Mr. Pickwick’s mouth, as he applied his telescope to hiseye.

　　‘Ah! fine place,’ said the stranger, ‘glorious pile―frowningwalls―tottering arches―dark nooks―crumbling staircases―oldcathedral too―earthy smell―pilgrims’ feet wore away the oldsteps―little Saxon doors―confessionals like money-takers’ boxesat theatres―queer customers those monks―popes, and lordtreasurers, and all sorts of old fellows, with great red faces, andbroken noses, turning up every day―buff jerkins too―match-locks―sarcophagus―fine place―old legends too―strange stories:

　　capital;’ and the stranger continued to soliloquise until theyreached the Bull Inn, in the High Street, where the coach stopped.

　　‘Do you remain here, sir?’ inquired Mr. Nathaniel Winkle.

　　‘Here―not I―but you’d better―good house―nice beds―Wright’s next house, dear―very dear―half-a-crown in the bill ifyou look at the waiter―charge you more if you dine at a friend’sthan they would if you dined in the coffee-room―rum fellows―very.’

　　Mr. Winkle turned to Mr. Pickwick, and murmured a fewwords; a whisper passed from Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Snodgrass,from Mr. Snodgrass to Mr. Tupman, and nods of assent wereexchanged. Mr. Pickwick addressed the stranger.

　　‘You rendered us a very important service this morning, sir,’

　　said he, ‘will you allow us to offer a slight mark of our gratitude bybegging the favour of your company at dinner?’

　　‘Great pleasure―not presume to dictate, but broiled fowl andmushrooms―capital thing! What time?’

　　‘Let me see,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, referring to his watch, ‘it isnow nearly three. Shall we say five?’

　　‘Suit me excellently,’ said the stranger, ‘five precisely―tillthen―care of yourselves;’ and lifting the pinched-up hat a fewinches from his head, and carelessly replacing it very much on oneside, the stranger, with half the brown paper parcel sticking out ofhis pocket, walked briskly up the yard, and turned into the HighStreet.

　　‘Evidently a traveller in many countries, and a close observer ofmen and things,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘I should like to see his poem,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

　　‘I should like to have seen that dog,’ said Mr. Winkle.

　　Mr. Tupman said nothing; but he thought of Donna Christina,the stomach pump, and the fountain; and his eyes filled with tears.

　　A private sitting-room having been engaged, bedroomsinspected, and dinner ordered, the party walked out to view thecity and adjoining neighbourhood.

　　We do not find, from a careful perusal of Mr. Pickwick’s notes ofthe four towns, Stroud, Rochester, Chatham, and Brompton, thathis impressions of their appearance differ in any material pointfrom those of other travellers who have gone over the sameground. His general description is easily abridged.

　　‘The principal productions of these towns,’ says Mr. Pickwick,‘appear to be soldiers, sailors, Jews, chalk, shrimps, officers, anddockyard men. The commodities chiefly exposed for sale in thepublic streets are marine stores, hard-bake, apples, flat-fish, andoysters. The streets present a lively and animated appearance,occasioned chiefly by the conviviality of the military. It is trulydelightful to a philanthropic mind to see these gallant menstaggering along under the influence of an overflow both of animaland ardent spirits; more especially when we remember that thefollowing them about, and jesting with them, affords a cheap andinnocent amusement for the boy population. Nothing,’ adds Mr.

　　Pickwick, ‘can exceed their good-humour. It was but the daybefore my arrival that one of them had been most grossly insultedin the house of a publican. The barmaid had positively refused todraw him any more liquor; in return for which he had (merely inplayfulness) drawn his bayonet, and wounded the girl in theshoulder. And yet this fine fellow was the very first to go down tothe house next morning and express his readiness to overlook thematter, and forget what had occurred!

　　‘The consumption of tobacco in these towns,’ continues Mr.

　　Pickwick, ‘must be very great, and the smell which pervades thestreets must be exceedingly delicious to those who are extremelyfond of smoking. A superficial traveller might object to the dirt,which is their leading characteristic; but to those who view it as anindication of traffic and commercial prosperity, it is trulygratifying.’

　　Punctual to five o’clock came the stranger, and shortlyafterwards the dinner. He had divested himself of his brown paperparcel, but had made no alteration in his attire, and was, ifpossible, more loquacious than ever.

　　‘What’s that?’ he inquired, as the waiter removed one of thecovers.

　　‘Soles, sir.’

　　‘Soles―ah!―capital fish―all come from London-stage-coachproprietors get up political dinners―carriage of soles―dozens ofbaskets―cunning fellows. Glass of wine, sir.’

　　‘With pleasure,’ said Mr. Pickwick; and the stranger took wine,first with him, and then with Mr. Snodgrass, and then with Mr.

　　Tupman, and then with Mr. Winkle, and then with the whole partytogether, almost as rapidly as he talked.

　　‘Devil of a mess on the staircase, waiter,’ said the stranger.

　　‘Forms going up―carpenters coming down―lamps, glasses,harps. What’s going forward?’

　　‘Ball, sir,’ said the waiter.

　　‘Assembly, eh?’

　　‘No, sir, not assembly, sir. Ball for the benefit of a charity, sir.’

　　‘Many fine women in this town, do you know, sir?’ inquired Mr.

　　Tupman, with great interest.

　　‘Splendid―capital. Kent, sir―everybody knows Kent―apples,cherries, hops, and women. Glass of wine, sir!’

　　‘With great pleasure,’ replied Mr. Tupman. The stranger filled,and emptied.

　　‘I should very much like to go,’ said Mr. Tupman, resuming thesubject of the ball, ‘very much.’

　　‘Tickets at the bar, sir,’ interposed the waiter; ‘half-a-guineaeach, sir.’

　　Mr. Tupman again expressed an earnest wish to be present atthe festivity; but meeting with no response in the darkened eye ofMr. Snodgrass, or the abstracted gaze of Mr. Pickwick, he appliedhimself with great interest to the port wine and dessert, which hadjust been placed on the table. The waiter withdrew, and the partywere left to enjoy the cosy couple of hours succeeding dinner.

　　‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ said the stranger, ‘bottle stands―pass itround―way of the sun―through the button-hole―no heeltaps,’

　　and he emptied his glass, which he had filled about two minutesbefore, and poured out another, with the air of a man who wasused to it.

　　The wine was passed, and a fresh supply ordered. The visitortalked, the Pickwickians listened. Mr. Tupman felt every momentmore disposed for the ball. Mr. Pickwick’s countenance glowedwith an expression of universal philanthropy, and Mr. Winkle andMr. Snodgrass fell fast asleep.

　　‘They’re beginning upstairs,’ said the stranger―‘hear thecompany―fiddles tuning―now the harp―there they go.’ Thevarious sounds which found their way downstairs announced thecommencement of the first quadrille.

　　‘How I should like to go,’ said Mr. Tupman again.

　　‘So should I,’ said the stranger―‘confounded luggage,―heavysmacks―nothing to go in―odd, ain’t it?’

　　Now general benevolence was one of the leading features of thePickwickian theory, and no one was more remarkable for thezealous manner in which he observed so noble a principle thanMr. Tracy Tupman. The number of instances recorded on theTransactions of the Society, in which that excellent man referredobjects of charity to the houses of other members for left-offgarments or pecuniary relief is almost incredible. ‘I should be veryhappy to lend you a change of apparel for the purpose,’ said Mr.

　　Tracy Tupman, ‘but you are rather slim, and I am―’

　　‘Rather fat―grown-up Bacchus―cut the leaves―dismountedfrom the tub, and adopted kersey, eh?―not double distilled, butdouble milled―ha! ha! pass the wine.’

　　Whether Mr. Tupman was somewhat indignant at theperemptory tone in which he was desired to pass the wine whichthe stranger passed so quickly away, or whether he felt veryproperly scandalised at an influential member of the PickwickClub being ignominiously compared to a dismounted Bacchus, is afact not yet completely ascertained. He passed the wine, coughedtwice, and looked at the stranger for several seconds with a sternintensity; as that individual, however, appeared perfectlycollected, and quite calm under his searching glance, he graduallyrelaxed, and reverted to the subject of the ball.

　　‘I was about to observe, sir,’ he said, ‘that though my apparelwould be too large, a suit of my friend Mr. Winkle’s would,perhaps, fit you better.’

　　The stranger took Mr. Winkle’s measure with his eye, and thatfeature glistened with satisfaction as he said, ‘Just the thing.’

　　Mr. Tupman looked round him. The wine, which had exertedits somniferous influence over Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle, hadstolen upon the senses of Mr. Pickwick. That gentleman hadgradually passed through the various stages which precede thelethargy produced by dinner, and its consequences. He hadundergone the ordinary transitions from the height of convivialityto the depth of misery, and from the depth of misery to the heightof conviviality. Like a gas-lamp in the street, with the wind in thepipe, he had exhibited for a moment an unnatural brilliancy, thensank so low as to be scarcely discernible; after a short interval, hehad burst out again, to enlighten for a moment; then flickered withan uncertain, staggering sort of light, and then gone outaltogether. His head was sunk upon his bosom, and perpetualsnoring, with a partial choke occasionally, were the only audibleindications of the great man’s presence.

　　The temptation to be present at the ball, and to form his firstimpressions of the beauty of the Kentish ladies, was strong uponMr. Tupman. The temptation to take the stranger with him wasequally great. He was wholly unacquainted with the place and itsinhabitants, and the stranger seemed to possess as great aknowledge of both as if he had lived there from his infancy. Mr.

　　Winkle was asleep, and Mr. Tupman had had sufficient experiencein such matters to know that the moment he awoke he would, inthe ordinary course of nature, roll heavily to bed. He wasundecided. ‘Fill your glass, and pass the wine,’ said theindefatigable visitor.

　　Mr. Tupman did as he was requested; and the additionalstimulus of the last glass settled his determination.

　　‘Winkle’s bedroom is inside mine,’ said Mr. Tupman; ‘I couldn’tmake him understand what I wanted, if I woke him now, but Iknow he has a dress-suit in a carpet bag; and supposing you woreit to the ball, and took it off when we returned, I could replace itwithout troubling him at all about the matter.’

　　‘Capital,’ said the stranger, ‘famous plan―damned oddsituation―fourteen coats in the packing-cases, and obliged towear another man’s―very good notion, that―very.’

　　‘We must purchase our tickets,’ said Mr. Tupman.

　　‘Not worth while splitting a guinea,’ said the stranger, ‘toss whoshall pay for both―I call; you spin―first time―woman―woman―bewitching woman,’ and down came the sovereign with thedragon (called by courtesy a woman) uppermost.

　　Mr. Tupman rang the bell, purchased the tickets, and orderedchamber candlesticks. In another quarter of an hour the strangerwas completely arrayed in a full suit of Mr. Nathaniel Winkle’s.

　　‘It’s a new coat,’ said Mr. Tupman, as the stranger surveyedhimself with great complacency in a cheval glass; ‘the first that’sbeen made with our club button,’ and he called his companions’

　　attention to the large gilt button which displayed a bust of Mr.

　　Pickwick in the centre, and the letters ‘P. C.’ on either side.

　　‘“P. C.”’ said the stranger―‘queer set out―old fellow’s likeness,and “P. C.”―What does “P. C.” stand for―Peculiar Coat, eh?’

　　Mr. Tupman, with rising indignation and great importance,explained the mystic device.

　　‘Rather short in the waist, ain’t it?’ said the stranger, screwinghimself round to catch a glimpse in the glass of the waist buttons,which were half-way up his back. ‘Like a general postman’s coat―queer coats those―made by contract―no measuring―mysteriousdispensations of Providence―all the short men get long coats―allthe long men short ones.’ Running on in this way, Mr. Tupman’snew companion adjusted his dress, or rather the dress of Mr.

　　Winkle; and, accompanied by Mr. Tupman, ascended the staircaseleading to the ballroom.

　　‘What names, sir?’ said the man at the door. Mr. Tracy Tupmanwas stepping forward to announce his own titles, when thestranger prevented him.

　　‘No names at all;’ and then he whispered Mr. Tupman, ‘nameswon’t do―not known―very good names in their way, but notgreat ones―capital names for a small party, but won’t make animpression in public assemblies―incog. the thing―gentlemenfrom London―distinguished foreigners―anything.’ The door wasthrown open, and Mr. Tracy Tupman and the stranger entered theballroom.

　　It was a long room, with crimson-covered benches, and waxcandles in glass chandeliers. The musicians were securelyconfined in an elevated den, and quadrilles were beingsystematically got through by two or three sets of dancers. Twocard-tables were made up in the adjoining card-room, and twopair of old ladies, and a corresponding number of stout gentlemen,were executing whist therein.

　　The finale concluded, the dancers promenaded the room, andMr. Tupman and his companion stationed themselves in a cornerto observe the company.

　　‘Charming women,’ said Mr. Tupman.

　　‘Wait a minute,’ said the stranger, ‘fun presently―nobs notcome yet―queer place―dockyard people of upper rank don’tknow dockyard people of lower rank―dockyard people of lowerrank don’t know small gentry―small gentry don’t knowtradespeople―commissioner don’t know anybody.’

　　‘Who’s that little boy with the light hair and pink eyes, in afancy dress?’ inquired Mr. Tupman.

　　‘Hush, pray―pink eyes―fancy dress―little boy―nonsense―ensign 97th―Honourable Wilmot Snipe―great family―Snipes―very.’

　　‘Sir Thomas Clubber, Lady Clubber, and the Misses Clubber!’

　　shouted the man at the door in a stentorian voice. A greatsensation was created throughout the room by the entrance of atall gentleman in a blue coat and bright buttons, a large lady inblue satin, and two young ladies, on a similar scale, in fashionably-made dresses of the same hue.

　　‘Commissioner―head of the yard―great man―remarkablygreat man,’ whispered the stranger in Mr. Tupman’s ear, as thecharitable committee ushered Sir Thomas Clubber and family tothe top of the room. The Honourable Wilmot Snipe, and otherdistinguished gentlemen crowded to render homage to the MissesClubber; and Sir Thomas Clubber stood bolt upright, and lookedmajestically over his black kerchief at the assembled company.

　　‘Mr. Smithie, Mrs. Smithie, and the Misses Smithie,’ was thenext announcement.

　　‘What’s Mr. Smithie?’ inquired Mr. Tracy Tupman.

　　‘Something in the yard,’ replied the stranger. Mr. Smithiebowed deferentially to Sir Thomas Clubber; and Sir ThomasClubber acknowledged the salute with conscious condescension.

　　Lady Clubber took a telescopic view of Mrs. Smithie and familythrough her eye-glass and Mrs. Smithie stared in her turn at Mrs.

　　Somebody-else, whose husband was not in the dockyard at all.

　　‘Colonel Bulder, Mrs. Colonel Bulder, and Miss Bulder,’ werethe next arrivals.

　　‘Head of the garrison,’ said the stranger, in reply to Mr.

　　Tupman’s inquiring look.

　　Miss Bulder was warmly welcomed by the Misses Clubber; thegreeting between Mrs. Colonel Bulder and Lady Clubber was ofthe most affectionate description; Colonel Bulder and Sir ThomasClubber exchanged snuff-boxes, and looked very much like a pairof Alexander Selkirks―‘Monarchs of all they surveyed.’

　　While the aristocracy of the place―the Bulders, and Clubbers,and Snipes―were thus preserving their dignity at the upper endof the room, the other classes of society were imitating theirexample in other parts of it. The less aristocratic officers of the97th devoted themselves to the families of the less importantfunctionaries from the dockyard. The solicitors’ wives, and thewine-merchant’s wife, headed another grade (the brewer’s wifevisited the Bulders); and Mrs. Tomlinson, the post-office keeper,seemed by mutual consent to have been chosen the leader of thetrade party.

　　One of the most popular personages, in his own circle, present,was a little fat man, with a ring of upright black hair round hishead, and an extensive bald plain on the top of it―DoctorSlammer, surgeon to the 97th. The doctor took snuff witheverybody, chatted with everybody, laughed, danced, made jokes,played whist, did everything, and was everywhere. To thesepursuits, multifarious as they were, the little doctor added a moreimportant one than any―he was indefatigable in paying the mostunremitting and devoted attention to a little old widow, whose richdress and profusion of ornament bespoke her a most desirableaddition to a limited income.

　　Upon the doctor, and the widow, the eyes of both Mr. Tupmanand his companion had been fixed for some time, when thestranger broke silence.

　　‘Lots of money―old girl―pompous doctor―not a bad idea―good fun,’ were the intelligible sentences which issued from hislips. Mr. Tupman looked inquisitively in his face. ‘I’ll dance withthe widow,’ said the stranger.

　　‘Who is she?’ inquired Mr. Tupman.

　　‘Don’t know―never saw her in all my life―cut out the doctor―here goes.’ And the stranger forthwith crossed the room; and,leaning against a mantel-piece, commenced gazing with an air ofrespectful and melancholy admiration on the fat countenance ofthe little old lady. Mr. Tupman looked on, in mute astonishment The stranger progressed rapidly; the little doctor danced withanother lady; the widow dropped her fan; the stranger picked itup, and presented it―a smile―a bow―a curtsey―a few words ofconversation. The stranger walked boldly up to, and returnedwith, the master of the ceremonies; a little introductorypantomime; and the stranger and Mrs. Budger took their places ina quadrille.

　　The surprise of Mr. Tupman at this summary proceeding, greatas it was, was immeasurably exceeded by the astonishment of thedoctor. The stranger was young, and the widow was flattered. Thedoctor’s attentions were unheeded by the widow; and the doctor’sindignation was wholly lost on his imperturbable rival. DoctorSlammer was paralysed. He, Doctor Slammer, of the 97th, to beextinguished in a moment, by a man whom nobody had ever seenbefore, and whom nobody knew even now! Doctor Slammer―Doctor Slammer of the 97th rejected! Impossible! It could not be!

　　Yes, it was; there they were. What! introducing his friend! Couldhe believe his eyes! He looked again, and was under the painfulnecessity of admitting the veracity of his optics; Mrs. Budger wasdancing with Mr. Tracy Tupman; there was no mistaking the fact.

　　There was the widow before him, bouncing bodily here and there,with unwonted vigour; and Mr. Tracy Tupman hopping about,with a face expressive of the most intense solemnity, dancing (as agood many people do) as if a quadrille were not a thing to belaughed at, but a severe trial to the feelings, which it requiresinflexible resolution to encounter.

　　Silently and patiently did the doctor bear all this, and all thehandings of negus, and watching for glasses, and darting forbiscuits, and coquetting, that ensued; but, a few seconds after thestranger had disappeared to lead Mrs. Budger to her carriage, hedarted swiftly from the room with every particle of his hitherto-bottled-up indignation effervescing, from all parts of hiscountenance, in a perspiration of passion.

　　The stranger was returning, and Mr. Tupman was beside him.

　　He spoke in a low tone, and laughed. The little doctor thirsted forhis life. He was exulting. He had triumphed.

　　‘Sir!’ said the doctor, in an awful voice, producing a card, andretiring into an angle of the passage, ‘my name is Slammer, DoctorSlammer, sir―97th Regiment―Chatham Barracks―my card, sir,my card.’ He would have added more, but his indignation chokedhim.

　　‘Ah!’ replied the stranger coolly, ‘Slammer―much obliged―polite attention―not ill now, Slammer―but when I am―knockyou up.’

　　‘You―you’re a shuffler, sir,’ gasped the furious doctor, ‘apoltroon―a coward―a liar―a―a―will nothing induce you to giveme your card, sir!’

　　‘Oh! I see,’ said the stranger, half aside, ‘negus too stronghere―liberal landlord―very foolish―very―lemonade muchbetter―hot rooms―elderly gentlemen―suffer for it in themorning―cruel―cruel;’ and he moved on a step or two.

　　‘You are stopping in this house, sir,’ said the indignant littleman; ‘you are intoxicated now, sir; you shall hear from me in themorning, sir. I shall find you out, sir; I shall find you out.’

　　‘Rather you found me out than found me at home,’ replied theunmoved stranger.

　　Doctor Slammer looked unutterable ferocity, as he fixed his haton his head with an indignant knock; and the stranger and Mr.

　　Tupman ascended to the bedroom of the latter to restore theborrowed plumage to the unconscious Winkle.

　　That gentleman was fast asleep; the restoration was soon made.

　　The stranger was extremely jocose; and Mr. Tracy Tupman, beingquite bewildered with wine, negus, lights, and ladies, thought thewhole affair was an exquisite joke. His new friend departed; and,after experiencing some slight difficulty in finding the orifice in hisnightcap, originally intended for the reception of his head, andfinally overturning his candlestick in his struggles to put it on, Mr.

　　Tracy Tupman managed to get into bed by a series of complicatedevolutions, and shortly afterwards sank into repose.

　　Seven o’clock had hardly ceased striking on the followingmorning, when Mr. Pickwick’s comprehensive mind was arousedfrom the state of unconsciousness, in which slumber had plungedit, by a loud knocking at his chamber door. ‘Who’s there?’ said Mr.

　　Pickwick, starting up in bed.

　　‘Boots, sir.’

　　‘What do you want?’

　　‘Please, sir, can you tell me which gentleman of your partywears a bright blue dress-coat, with a gilt button with “P. C.” onit?’

　　‘It’s been given out to brush,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, ‘and theman has forgotten whom it belongs to.―Mr. Winkle,’ he called out,‘next room but two, on the right hand.’

　　‘Thank’ee, sir,’ said the Boots, and away he went.

　　‘What’s the matter?’ cried Mr. Tupman, as a loud knocking athis door roused him from his oblivious repose.

　　‘Can I speak to Mr. Winkle, sir?’ replied Boots from the outside.

　　‘Winkle―Winkle!’ shouted Mr. Tupman, calling into the innerroom. ‘Hollo!’ replied a faint voice from within the bed-clothes.

　　‘You’re wanted―some one at the door;’ and, having exertedhimself to articulate thus much, Mr. Tracy Tupman turned roundand fell fast asleep again.

　　‘Wanted!’ said Mr. Winkle, hastily jumping out of bed, andputting on a few articles of clothing; ‘wanted! at this distance fromtown―who on earth can want me?’

　　‘Gentleman in the coffee-room, sir,’ replied the Boots, as Mr.

　　Winkle opened the door and confronted him; ‘gentleman says he’llnot detain you a moment, sir, but he can take no denial.’

　　‘Very odd!’ said Mr. Winkle; ‘I’ll be down directly.’

　　He hurriedly wrapped himself in a travelling-shawl anddressing-gown, and proceeded downstairs. An old woman and acouple of waiters were cleaning the coffee-room, and an officer inundress uniform was looking out of the window. He turned roundas Mr. Winkle entered, and made a stiff inclination of the head.

　　Having ordered the attendants to retire, and closed the door verycarefully, he said, ‘Mr. Winkle, I presume?’

　　‘My name is Winkle, sir.’

　　‘You will not be surprised, sir, when I inform you that I havecalled here this morning on behalf of my friend, Doctor Slammer,of the 97th.’

　　‘Doctor Slammer!’ said Mr. Winkle.

　　‘Doctor Slammer. He begged me to express his opinion thatyour conduct of last evening was of a description which nogentleman could endure; and’ (he added) ‘which no one gentlemanwould pursue towards another.’

　　Mr. Winkle’s astonishment was too real, and too evident, toescape the observation of Doctor Slammer’s friend; he thereforeproceeded―‘My friend, Doctor Slammer, requested me to add,that he was firmly persuaded you were intoxicated during aportion of the evening, and possibly unconscious of the extent ofthe insult you were guilty of. He commissioned me to say, thatshould this be pleaded as an excuse for your behaviour, he willconsent to accept a written apology, to be penned by you, from mydictation.’

　　‘A written apology!’ repeated Mr. Winkle, in the most emphatictone of amazement possible.

　　‘Of course you know the alternative,’ replied the visitor coolly.

　　‘Were you intrusted with this message to me by name?’

　　inquired Mr. Winkle, whose intellects were hopelessly confused bythis extraordinary conversation.

　　‘I was not present myself,’ replied the visitor, ‘and inconsequence of your firm refusal to give your card to DoctorSlammer, I was desired by that gentleman to identify the wearerof a very uncommon coat―a bright blue dress-coat, with a giltbutton displaying a bust, and the letters “P. C.”’

　　Mr. Winkle actually staggered with astonishment as he heardhis own costume thus minutely described. Doctor Slammer’sfriend proceeded:―‘From the inquiries I made at the bar, justnow, I was convinced that the owner of the coat in questionarrived here, with three gentlemen, yesterday afternoon. Iimmediately sent up to the gentleman who was described asappearing the head of the party, and he at once referred me toyou.’

　　If the principal tower of Rochester Castle had suddenly walkedfrom its foundation, and stationed itself opposite the coffee-roomwindow, Mr. Winkle’s surprise would have been as nothingcompared with the profound astonishment with which he hadheard this address. His first impression was that his coat had beenstolen. ‘Will you allow me to detain you one moment?’ said he.

　　‘Certainly,’ replied the unwelcome visitor.

　　Mr. Winkle ran hastily upstairs, and with a trembling handopened the bag. There was the coat in its usual place, butexhibiting, on a close inspection, evident tokens of having beenworn on the preceding night.

　　‘It must be so,’ said Mr. Winkle, letting the coat fall from hishands. ‘I took too much wine after dinner, and have a very vaguerecollection of walking about the streets, and smoking a cigarafterwards. The fact is, I was very drunk;―I must have changedmy coat―gone somewhere―and insulted somebody―I have nodoubt of it; and this message is the terrible consequence.’ Sayingwhich, Mr. Winkle retraced his steps in the direction of the coffee-room, with the gloomy and dreadful resolve of accepting thechallenge of the warlike Doctor Slammer, and abiding by theworst consequences that might ensue.

　　To this determination Mr. Winkle was urged by a variety ofconsiderations, the first of which was his reputation with the club.

　　He had always been looked up to as a high authority on all mattersof amusement and dexterity, whether offensive, defensive, orinoffensive; and if, on this very first occasion of being put to thetest, he shrunk back from the trial, beneath his leader’s eye, hisname and standing were lost for ever. Besides, he remembered tohave heard it frequently surmised by the uninitiated in suchmatters that by an understood arrangement between the seconds,the pistols were seldom loaded with ball; and, furthermore, hereflected that if he applied to Mr. Snodgrass to act as his second,and depicted the danger in glowing terms, that gentleman mightpossibly communicate the intelligence to Mr. Pickwick, who wouldcertainly lose no time in transmitting it to the local authorities,and thus prevent the killing or maiming of his follower.

　　Such were his thoughts when he returned to the coffee-room,and intimated his intention of accepting the doctor’s challenge.

　　‘Will you refer me to a friend, to arrange the time and place ofmeeting?’ said the officer.

　　‘Quite unnecessary,’ replied Mr. Winkle; ‘name them to me, andI can procure the attendance of a friend afterwards.’

　　‘Shall we say―sunset this evening?’ inquired the officer, in acareless tone.

　　‘Very good,’ replied Mr. Winkle, thinking in his heart it wasvery bad.

　　‘You know Fort Pitt?’

　　‘Yes; I saw it yesterday.’

　　‘If you will take the trouble to turn into the field which bordersthe trench, take the foot-path to the left when you arrive at anangle of the fortification, and keep straight on, till you see me, Iwill precede you to a secluded place, where the affair can beconducted without fear of interruption.’

　　‘Fear of interruption!’ thought Mr. Winkle.

　　‘Nothing more to arrange, I think,’ said the officer.

　　‘I am not aware of anything more,’ replied Mr. Winkle. ‘Good-morning.’

　　‘Good-morning;’ and the officer whistled a lively air as he strodeaway.

　　That morning’s breakfast passed heavily off. Mr. Tupman wasnot in a condition to rise, after the unwonted dissipation of theprevious night; Mr. Snodgrass appeared to labour under a poeticaldepression of spirits; and even Mr. Pickwick evinced an unusualattachment to silence and soda-water. Mr. Winkle eagerly watchedhis opportunity: it was not long wanting. Mr. Snodgrass proposeda visit to the castle, and as Mr. Winkle was the only other memberof the party disposed to walk, they went out together. ‘Snodgrass,’

　　said Mr. Winkle, when they had turned out of the public street.

　　‘Snodgrass, my dear fellow, can I rely upon your secrecy?’ As hesaid this, he most devoutly and earnestly hoped he could not.

　　‘You can,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass. ‘Hear me swear―’

　　‘No, no,’ interrupted Winkle, terrified at the idea of hiscompanion’s unconsciously pledging himself not to giveinformation; ‘don’t swear, don’t swear; it’s quite unnecessary.’

　　Mr. Snodgrass dropped the hand which he had, in the spirit ofpoesy, raised towards the clouds as he made the above appeal, andassumed an attitude of attention.

　　‘I want your assistance, my dear fellow, in an affair of honour,’

　　said Mr. Winkle.

　　‘You shall have it,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass, clasping his friend’shand.

　　‘With a doctor―Doctor Slammer, of the 97th,’ said Mr. Winkle,wishing to make the matter appear as solemn as possible; ‘anaffair with an officer, seconded by another officer, at sunset thisevening, in a lonely field beyond Fort Pitt.’

　　‘I will attend you,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

　　He was astonished, but by no means dismayed. It isextraordinary how cool any party but the principal can be in suchcases. Mr. Winkle had forgotten this. He had judged of his friend’sfeelings by his own.

　　‘The consequences may be dreadful,’ said Mr. Winkle.

　　‘I hope not,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

　　‘The doctor, I believe, is a very good shot,’ said Mr. Winkle.

　　‘Most of these military men are,’ observed Mr. Snodgrasscalmly; ‘but so are you, ain’t you?’ Mr. Winkle replied in theaffirmative; and perceiving that he had not alarmed hiscompanion sufficiently, changed his ground.

　　‘Snodgrass,’ he said, in a voice tremulous with emotion, ‘if I fall,you will find in a packet which I shall place in your hands a notefor my―for my father.’

　　This attack was a failure also. Mr. Snodgrass was affected, buthe undertook the delivery of the note as readily as if he had been atwopenny postman.

　　‘If I fall,’ said Mr. Winkle, ‘or if the doctor falls, you, my dearfriend, will be tried as an accessory before the fact. Shall I involvemy friend in transportation―possibly for life!’ Mr. Snodgrasswinced a little at this, but his heroism was invincible. ‘In the causeof friendship,’ he fervently exclaimed, ‘I would brave all dangers.’

　　How Mr. Winkle cursed his companion’s devoted friendshipinternally, as they walked silently along, side by side, for someminutes, each immersed in his own meditations! The morning waswearing away; he grew desperate.

　　‘Snodgrass,’ he said, stopping suddenly, ‘do not let me bebalked in this matter―do not give information to the localauthorities―do not obtain the assistance of several peace officers,to take either me or Doctor Slammer, of the 97th Regiment, atpresent quartered in Chatham Barracks, into custody, and thusprevent this duel!―I say, do not.’

　　Mr. Snodgrass seized his friend’s hand warmly, as heenthusiastically replied, ‘Not for worlds!’

　　A thrill passed over Mr. Winkle’s frame as the conviction thathe had nothing to hope from his friend’s fears, and that he wasdestined to become an animated target, rushed forcibly upon him.

　　The state of the case having been formally explained to Mr.

　　Snodgrass, and a case of satisfactory pistols, with the satisfactoryaccompaniments of powder, ball, and caps, having been hiredfrom a manufacturer in Rochester, the two friends returned totheir inn; Mr. Winkle to ruminate on the approaching struggle,and Mr. Snodgrass to arrange the weapons of war, and put theminto proper order for immediate use.

　　It was a dull and heavy evening when they again sallied forthon their awkward errand. Mr. Winkle was muffled up in a hugecloak to escape observation, and Mr. Snodgrass bore under his theinstruments of destruction.

　　‘Have you got everything?’ said Mr. Winkle, in an agitated tone.

　　‘Everything,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass; ‘plenty of ammunition, incase the shots don’t take effect. There’s a quarter of a pound ofpowder in the case, and I have got two newspapers in my pocketfor the loadings.’

　　These were instances of friendship for which any man mightreasonably feel most grateful. The presumption is, that thegratitude of Mr. Winkle was too powerful for utterance, as he saidnothing, but continued to walk on―rather slowly.

　　‘We are in excellent time,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, as they climbedthe fence of the first field;’ the sun is just going down.’ Mr. Winklelooked up at the declining orb and painfully thought of theprobability of his ‘going down’ himself, before long.

　　‘There’s the officer,’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle, after a few minuteswalking. ‘Where?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

　　‘There―the gentleman in the blue cloak.’ Mr. Snodgrass lookedin the direction indicated by the forefinger of his friend, andobserved a figure, muffled up, as he had described. The officerevinced his consciousness of their presence by slightly beckoningwith his hand; and the two friends followed him at a little distance,as he walked away.

　　The evening grew more dull every moment, and a melancholywind sounded through the deserted fields, like a distant giantwhistling for his house-dog. The sadness of the scene imparted asombre tinge to the feelings of Mr. Winkle. He started as theypassed the angle of the trench―it looked like a colossal grave.

　　The officer turned suddenly from the path, and after climbing apaling, and scaling a hedge, entered a secluded field. Twogentlemen were waiting in it; one was a little, fat man, with blackhair; and the other―a portly personage in a braided surtout―wassitting with perfect equanimity on a camp-stool.

　　‘The other party, and a surgeon, I suppose,’ said Mr. Snodgrass;‘take a drop of brandy.’ Mr. Winkle seized the wicker bottle whichhis friend proffered, and took a lengthened pull at the exhilaratingliquid.

　　‘My friend, sir, Mr. Snodgrass,’ said Mr. Winkle, as the officerapproached. Doctor Slammer’s friend bowed, and produced a casesimilar to that which Mr. Snodgrass carried.

　　‘We have nothing further to say, sir, I think,’ he coldlyremarked, as he opened the case; ‘an apology has been resolutelydeclined.’

　　‘Nothing, sir,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, who began to feel ratheruncomfortable himself.

　　‘Will you step forward?’ said the officer.

　　‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass. The ground was measured,and preliminaries arranged. ‘You will find these better than yourown,’ said the opposite second, producing his pistols. ‘You saw meload them. Do you object to use them?’

　　‘Certainly not,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass. The offer relieved himfrom considerable embarrassment, for his previous notions ofloading a pistol were rather vague and undefined.

　　‘We may place our men, then, I think,’ observed the officer, withas much indifference as if the principals were chess-men, and theseconds players.

　　‘I think we may,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass; who would haveassented to any proposition, because he knew nothing about thematter. The officer crossed to Doctor Slammer, and Mr. Snodgrasswent up to Mr. Winkle.

　　‘It’s all ready,’ said he, offering the pistol. ‘Give me your cloak.’

　　‘You have got the packet, my dear fellow,’ said poor Winkle. ‘Allright,’ said Mr. Snodgrass. ‘Be steady, and wing him.’

　　It occurred to Mr. Winkle that this advice was very like thatwhich bystanders invariably give to the smallest boy in a streetfight, namely, ‘Go in, and win’―an admirable thing to recommend,if you only know how to do it. He took off his cloak, however, insilence―it always took a long time to undo that cloak―andaccepted the pistol. The seconds retired, the gentleman on thecamp-stool did the same, and the belligerents approached eachother.

　　Mr. Winkle was always remarkable for extreme humanity. It isconjectured that his unwillingness to hurt a fellow-creatureintentionally was the cause of his shutting his eyes when hearrived at the fatal spot; and that the circumstance of his eyesbeing closed, prevented his observing the very extraordinary andunaccountable demeanour of Doctor Slammer. That gentlemanstarted, stared, retreated, rubbed his eyes, stared again, and,finally, shouted, ‘Stop, stop!’

　　‘What’s all this?’ said Doctor Slammer, as his friend and Mr.

　　Snodgrass came running up; ‘that’s not the man.’

　　‘Not the man!’ said Doctor Slammer’s second.

　　‘Not the man!’ said Mr. Snodgrass.

　　‘Not the man!’ said the gentleman with the camp-stool in hishand.

　　‘Certainly not,’ replied the little doctor. ‘That’s not the personwho insulted me last night.’

　　‘Very extraordinary!’ exclaimed the officer.

　　‘Very,’ said the gentleman with the camp-stool. ‘The onlyquestion is, whether the gentleman, being on the ground, must notbe considered, as a matter of form, to be the individual whoinsulted our friend, Doctor Slammer, yesterday evening, whetherhe is really that individual or not;’ and having delivered thissuggestion, with a very sage and mysterious air, the man with thecamp-stool took a large pinch of snuff, and looked profoundlyround, with the air of an authority in such matters.

　　Now Mr. Winkle had opened his eyes, and his ears too, when heheard his adversary call out for a cessation of hostilities; andperceiving by what he had afterwards said that there was, beyondall question, some mistake in the matter, he at once foresaw theincrease of reputation he should inevitably acquire by concealingthe real motive of his coming out; he therefore stepped boldlyforward, and said―‘I am not the person. I know it.’

　　‘Then, that,’ said the man with the camp-stool, ‘is an affront toDoctor Slammer, and a sufficient reason for proceedingimmediately.’

　　‘Pray be quiet, Payne,’ said the doctor’s second. ‘Why did younot communicate this fact to me this morning, sir?’

　　‘To be sure―to be sure,’ said the man with the camp-stoolindignantly.

　　‘I entreat you to be quiet, Payne,’ said the other. ‘May I repeatmy question, sir?’

　　‘Because, sir,’ replied Mr. Winkle, who had had time todeliberate upon his answer, ‘because, sir, you described anintoxicated and ungentlemanly person as wearing a coat which Ihave the honour, not only to wear but to have invented―theproposed uniform, sir, of the Pickwick Club in London. Thehonour of that uniform I feel bound to maintain, and I therefore,without inquiry, accepted the challenge which you offered