HOW Mr. PICKWICK SPED UPON HIS MISSION,AND HOW HE WAS REINFORCEDIN THE OUTSET BY A MOSTUNEXPECTED AUXILIARYhe horses were put to, punctually at a quarter before ninenext morning, and Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller havingeach taken his seat, the one inside and the other out, thepostillion was duly directed to repair in the first instance to Mr.
Bob Sawyer’s house, for the purpose of taking up Mr. BenjaminAllen.
It was with feelings of no small astonishment, when thecarriage drew up before the door with the red lamp, and the verylegible inscription of ‘Sawyer, late Nockemorf,’ that Mr. Pickwicksaw, on popping his head out of the coach window, the boy in thegrey livery very busily employed in putting up the shutters―thewhich, being an unusual and an unbusinesslike proceeding at thathour of the morning, at once suggested to his mind two inferences:
the one, that some good friend and patient of Mr. Bob Sawyer’swas dead; the other, that Mr. Bob Sawyer himself was bankrupt.
‘What is the matter?’ said Mr. Pickwick to the boy.
‘Nothing’s the matter, sir,’ replied the boy, expanding hismouth to the whole breadth of his countenance.
‘All right, all right!’ cried Bob Sawyer, suddenly appearing atthe door, with a small leathern knapsack, limp and dirty, in onehand, and a rough coat and shawl thrown over the other arm. ‘I’mgoing, old fellow.’
‘You!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
‘Yes,’ replied Bob Sawyer, ‘and a regular expedition we’ll makeof it. Here, Sam! Look out!’ Thus briefly bespeaking Mr. Weller’sattention, Mr. Bob Sawyer jerked the leathern knapsack into thedickey, where it was immediately stowed away, under the seat, bySam, who regarded the proceeding with great admiration. Thisdone, Mr. Bob Sawyer, with the assistance of the boy, forciblyworked himself into the rough coat, which was a few sizes toosmall for him, and then advancing to the coach window, thrust inhis head, and laughed boisterously. ‘What a start it is, isn’t it?’
cried Bob, wiping the tears out of his eyes, with one of the cuffs ofthe rough coat.
‘My dear sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with some embarrassment, ‘Ihad no idea of your accompanying us.’
‘No, that’s just the very thing,’ replied Bob, seizing Mr.
Pickwick by the lappel of his coat. ‘That’s the joke.’
‘Oh, that’s the joke, is it?’ 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 Sawyerpointed to the shop, and relapsed into an ecstasy of mirth.
‘Bless me, you are surely not mad enough to think of leavingyour patients without anybody to attend them!’ remonstrated Mr.
Pickwick in a very serious tone.
‘Why not?’ asked Bob, in reply. ‘I shall save by it, you know.
None of them ever pay. Besides,’ said Bob, lowering his voice to aconfidential whisper, ‘they will be all the better for it; for, beingnearly out of drugs, and not able to increase my account just now,I should have been obliged to give them calomel all round, and itwould have been certain to have disagreed with some of them. Soit’s all for the best.’
There was a philosophy and a strength of reasoning about thisreply, which Mr. Pickwick was not prepared for. He paused a fewmoments, and added, less firmly than before―‘But this chaise, my young friend, will only hold two; and I ampledged to Mr. Allen.’
‘Don’t think of me for a minute,’ replied Bob. ‘I’ve arranged itall; Sam and I will share the dickey between us. Look here. Thislittle bill is to be wafered on the shop door: “Sawyer, lateNockemorf. Inquire of Mrs. Cripps over the way.” Mrs. Cripps ismy boy’s mother. “Mr. Sawyer’s very sorry,” says Mrs. Cripps,“couldn’t help it―fetched away early this morning to aconsultation of the very first surgeons in the country―couldn’t dowithout him―would have him at any price―tremendousoperation.” The fact is,’ said Bob, in conclusion, ‘it’ll do me moregood than otherwise, I expect. If it gets into one of the local papers,it will be the making of me. Here’s Ben; now then, jump in!’
With these hurried words, Mr. Bob Sawyer pushed the postboyon one side, jerked his friend into the vehicle, slammed the door,put up the steps, wafered the bill on the street door, locked it, putthe key in his pocket, jumped into the dickey, gave the word forstarting, and did the whole with such extraordinary precipitation,that before Mr. Pickwick had well begun to consider whether Mr.
Bob Sawyer ought to go or not, they were rolling away, with Mr.
Bob Sawyer thoroughly established as part and parcel of theequipage.
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 ofdemeanour; merely giving utterance to divers verbal witticisms forthe exclusive behoof and entertainment of Mr. Samuel Weller. Butwhen they emerged on the open road, he threw off his greenspectacles and his gravity together, and performed a great varietyof practical jokes, which were calculated to attract the attention ofthe passersby, and to render the carriage and those it containedobjects of more than ordinary curiosity; the least conspicuousamong these feats being a most vociferous imitation of a key-bugle, and the ostentatious display of a crimson silk pocket-handkerchief attached to a walking-stick, which was occasionallywaved in the air with various gestures indicative of supremacy anddefiance.
‘I wonder,’ said Mr. Pickwick, stopping in the midst of a mostsedate conversation with Ben Allen, bearing reference to thenumerous good qualities of Mr. Winkle and his sister―‘I wonderwhat all the people we pass, can see in us to make them stare so.’
‘It’s a neat turn-out,’ replied Ben Allen, with something of pridein his tone. ‘They’re not used to see this sort of thing, every day, Idare say.’
‘Possibly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘It may be so. Perhaps it is.’
Mr. Pickwick might very probably have reasoned himself intothe belief 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 betweenthem and some persons outside the vehicle, whereupon itoccurred to him that these demonstrations might be, in someremote degree, referable to the humorous deportment of Mr.
Robert Sawyer.
‘I hope,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that our volatile friend iscommitting no absurdities in that dickey behind.’
‘Oh dear, no,’ replied Ben Allen. ‘Except when he’s elevated,Bob’s the quietest creature breathing.’
Here a prolonged imitation of a key-bugle broke upon the ear,succeeded by cheers and screams, all of which evidentlyproceeded from the throat and lungs of the quietest creaturebreathing, or in plainer designation, of Mr. Bob Sawyer himself.
Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Ben Allen looked expressively at eachother, and the former gentleman taking off his hat, and leaning outof the coach window until nearly the whole of his waistcoat wasoutside it, was at length enabled to catch a glimpse of his facetiousfriend.
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 theother, he supported a goodly-sized case-bottle, to both of which heapplied himself with intense relish, varying the monotony of theoccupation by an occasional howl, or the interchange of somelively badinage with any passing stranger. The crimson flag wascarefully tied in an erect position to the rail of the dickey; and Mr.
Samuel Weller, decorated with Bob Sawyer’s hat, was seated inthe centre thereof, discussing a twin sandwich, with an animatedcountenance, the expression of which betokened his entire andperfect approval of the whole arrangement.
This was enough to irritate a gentleman with Mr. Pickwick’ssense of propriety, but it was not the whole extent of theaggravation, for a stage-coach full, inside and out, was meetingthem at the moment, and the astonishment of the passengers wasvery palpably evinced. The congratulations of an Irish family, too,who were keeping up with the chaise, and begging all the time,were of rather a boisterous description, especially those of its malehead, who appeared to consider the display as part and parcel ofsome political or other procession of triumph.
‘Mr. Sawyer!’ cried Mr. Pickwick, in a state of great excitement,‘Mr. Sawyer, sir!’
‘Hollo!’ responded that gentleman, looking over the side of thechaise with all the coolness in life.
‘Are you mad, sir?’ demanded Mr. Pickwick.
‘Not a bit of it,’ replied Bob; ‘only cheerful.’
‘Cheerful, sir!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. ‘Take down thatscandalous red handkerchief, I beg. I insist, sir. Sam, take itdown.’
Before Sam could interpose, Mr. Bob Sawyer gracefully struckhis colours, and having put them in his pocket, nodded in acourteous manner to Mr. Pickwick, wiped the mouth of the case-bottle, and applied it to his own, thereby informing him, withoutany unnecessary waste of words, that he devoted that draught towishing him all manner of happiness and prosperity. Having donethis, Bob replaced the cork with great care, and lookingbenignantly down on Mr. Pickwick, took a large bite out of thesandwich, and smiled.
‘Come,’ said Mr. Pickwick, whose momentary anger was notquite proof against Bob’s immovable self-possession, ‘pray let us have no more of this absurdity.’
‘No, no,’ replied Bob, once more exchanging hats with Mr.
Weller; ‘I didn’t mean to do it, only I got so enlivened with the ridethat I couldn’t help it.’
‘Think of the look of the thing,’ expostulated Mr. Pickwick;‘have some regard to appearances.’
‘Oh, certainly,’ said Bob, ‘it’s not the sort of thing at all. All over,governor.’
Satisfied with this assurance, Mr. Pickwick once more drew hishead into the chaise and pulled up the glass; but he had scarcelyresumed the conversation which Mr. Bob Sawyer had interrupted,when he was somewhat startled by the apparition of a small darkbody, of an oblong form, on the outside of the window, which gavesundry taps against it, as if impatient of admission.
‘What’s this?’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
‘It looks like a case-bottle;’ remarked Ben Allen, eyeing theobject in question through his spectacles with some interest; ‘Irather think it belongs to Bob.’
The impression was perfectly accurate; for Mr. Bob Sawyer,having attached the case-bottle to the end of the walking-stick,was battering the window with it, in token of his wish, that hisfriends inside would partake of its contents, in all good-fellowshipand harmony.
‘What’s to be done?’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking at the bottle.
‘This proceeding is more absurd than the other.’
‘I think it would be best to take it in,’ replied Mr. Ben Allen; ‘itwould serve him right to take it in and keep it, wouldn’t it?’
‘It would,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘shall I?’
‘I think it the most proper course we could possibly adopt,’
replied Ben.
This advice quite coinciding with his own opinion, Mr. Pickwickgently let down the window and disengaged the bottle from thestick; upon which the latter was drawn up, and Mr. Bob Sawyerwas heard to laugh heartily.
‘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 an abstracted 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 guardinghimself against the possibility of stating an untruth; ‘mind, I couldnot undertake to say certainly, without tasting it.’
‘You had better do so,’ said Ben; ‘we may as well know what itis.’
‘Do you think so?’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Well; if you arecurious to know, of course I have no objection.’
Ever willing to sacrifice his own feelings to the wishes of hisfriend, Mr. Pickwick at once took a pretty long taste.
‘What is it?’ inquired Ben Allen, interrupting him with someimpatience.
‘Curious,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smacking his lips, ‘I hardly know,now. Oh, yes!’ said Mr. Pickwick, after a second taste. ‘It is punch.’
Mr. Ben Allen looked at Mr. Pickwick; Mr. Pickwick looked atMr. Ben Allen; Mr. Ben Allen smiled; Mr. Pickwick did not.
‘It would serve him right,’ said the last-named gentleman, withsome severity―‘it would serve him right to drink it every drop.’
‘The very thing that occurred to me,’ said Ben Allen.
‘Is it, indeed?’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick. ‘Then here’s his health!’
With these words, that excellent person took a most energetic pullat the bottle, and handed it to Ben Allen, who was not slow toimitate his example. The smiles became mutual, and the milk-punch was gradually and cheerfully disposed of.
‘After all,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as he drained the last drop, ‘hispranks are really very amusing; very entertaining indeed.’
‘You may say that,’ rejoined Mr. Ben Allen. In proof of BobSawyer’s being one of the funniest fellows alive, he proceeded toentertain Mr. Pickwick with a long and circumstantial accounthow that gentleman once drank himself into a fever and got hishead shaved; the relation of which pleasant and agreeable historywas only stopped by the stoppage of the chaise at the Bell atBerkeley Heath, to change horses.
‘I say! We’re going to dine here, aren’t we?’ said Bob, looking inat the window.
‘Dine!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Why, we have only come nineteenmiles, and have eighty-seven and a half to go.’
‘Just the reason why we should take something to enable us tobear up against the fatigue,’ remonstrated Mr. Bob Sawyer.
‘Oh, it’s quite impossible to dine at half-past eleven o’clock inthe day,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch.
‘So it is,’ rejoined Bob, ‘lunch is the very thing. Hollo, you sir!
Lunch for three, directly; and keep the horses back for a quarter ofan hour. Tell them to put everything they have cold, on the table,and some bottled ale, and let us taste your very best Madeira.’
Issuing these orders with monstrous importance and bustle, Mr.
Bob Sawyer at once hurried into the house to superintend thearrangements; in less than five minutes he returned and declaredthem to be excellent.
The quality of the lunch fully justified the eulogium which Bobhad pronounced, and very great justice was done to it, not only bythat gentleman, but Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Pickwick also. Underthe auspices of the three, the bottled ale and the Madeira werepromptly disposed of; and when (the horses being once more putto) they resumed their seats, with the case-bottle full of the bestsubstitute for milk-punch that could be procured on so short anotice, the key-bugle sounded, and the red flag waved, without theslightest opposition on Mr. Pickwick’s part.
At the Hop Pole at Tewkesbury, they stopped to dine; uponwhich occasion there was more bottled ale, with some moreMadeira, and some port besides; and here the case-bottle wasreplenished for the fourth time. Under the influence of thesecombined stimulants, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Ben Allen fell fastasleep for thirty miles, while Bob and Mr. Weller sang duets in thedickey.
It was quite dark when Mr. Pickwick roused himself sufficientlyto look out of the window. The straggling cottages by the road-side, the dingy hue of every object visible, the murky atmosphere,the paths of cinders and brick-dust, the deep-red glow of furnacefires in the distance, the volumes of dense smoke issuing heavilyforth from high toppling chimneys, blackening and obscuringeverything around; the glare of distant lights, the ponderouswagons which toiled along the road, laden with clashing rods ofiron, or piled with heavy goods―all betokened their rapidapproach to the great working town of Birmingham.
As they rattled through the narrow thoroughfares leading to theheart of the turmoil, the sights and sounds of earnest occupationstruck more forcibly on the senses. The streets were thronged withworking people. The hum of labour resounded from every house;lights gleamed from the long casement windows in the atticstoreys, and the whirl of wheels and noise of machinery shook thetrembling walls. The fires, whose lurid, sullen light had beenvisible for miles, blazed fiercely up, in the great works andfactories of the town. The din of hammers, the rushing of steam,and the dead heavy clanking of engines, was the harsh musicwhich arose from every quarter. The postboy was driving brisklythrough the open streets, and past the handsome and well-lightedshops that intervene between the outskirts of the town an............