INTRODUCES Mr. PICKWICK TO A NEW ANDNOT UNINTERESTING SCENE INTHE GREAT DRAMA OF LIFEhe remainder of the period which Mr. Pickwick hadassigned as the duration of the stay at Bath passed overwithout the occurrence of anything material. Trinity termcommenced. On the expiration of its first week, Mr. Pickwick andhis friends returned to London; and the former gentleman,attended of course by Sam, straightway repaired to his oldquarters at the George and Vulture.
On the third morning after their arrival, just as all the clocks inthe city were striking nine individually, and somewhere aboutnine hundred and ninety-nine collectively, Sam was taking the airin George Yard, when a queer sort of fresh-painted vehicle droveup, out of which there jumped with great agility, throwing thereins to a stout man who sat beside him, a queer sort ofgentleman, who seemed made for the vehicle, and the vehicle forhim.
The vehicle was not exactly a gig, neither was it a stanhope. Itwas not what is currently denominated a dog-cart, neither was it ataxed cart, nor a chaise-cart, nor a guillotined cabriolet; and yet ithad something of the character of each and every of thesemachines. It was painted a bright yellow, with the shafts andwheels picked out in black; and the driver sat in the orthodoxsporting style, on cushions piled about two feet above the rail. Thehorse was a bay, a well-looking animal enough; but withsomething of a flash and dog-fighting air about him, nevertheless,which accorded both with the vehicle and his master.
The master himself was a man of about forty, with black hair,and carefully combed whiskers. He was dressed in a particularlygorgeous manner, with plenty of articles of jewellery about him―all about three sizes larger than those which are usually worn bygentlemen―and a rough greatcoat to crown the whole. Into onepocket of this greatcoat, he thrust his left hand the moment hedismounted, while from the other he drew forth, with his right, avery bright and glaring silk handkerchief, with which he whiskeda speck or two of dust from his boots, and then, crumpling it in hishand, swaggered up the court.
It had not escaped Sam’s attention that, when this persondismounted, a shabby-looking man in a brown greatcoat shorn ofdivers buttons, who had been previously slinking about, on theopposite side of the way, crossed over, and remained stationaryclose by. Having something more than a suspicion of the object ofthe gentleman’s visit, Sam preceded him to the George andVulture, and, turning sharp round, planted himself in the Centreof the doorway.
‘Now, my fine fellow!’ said the man in the rough coat, in animperious tone, attempting at the same time to push his way past.
‘Now, sir, wot’s the matter?’ replied Sam, returning the pushwith compound interest.
‘Come, none of this, my man; this won’t do with me,’ said theowner of the rough coat, raising his voice, and turning white.
‘Here, Smouch!’
‘Well, wot’s amiss here?’ growled the man in the brown coat,who had been gradually sneaking up the court during this shortdialogue.
‘Only some insolence of this young man’s,’ said the principal,giving Sam another push.
‘Come, none o’ this gammon,’ growled Smouch, giving himanother, and a harder one.
This last push had the effect which it was intended by theexperienced Mr. Smouch to produce; for while Sam, anxious toreturn the compliment, was grinding that gentleman’s bodyagainst the door-post, the principal crept past, and made his wayto the bar, whither Sam, after bandying a few epithetical remarkswith Mr. Smouch, followed at once.
‘Good-morning, my dear,’ said the principal, addressing theyoung lady at the bar, with Botany Bay ease, and New SouthWales gentility; ‘which is Mr. Pickwick’s room, my dear?’
‘Show him up,’ said the barmaid to a waiter, without deigninganother look at the exquisite, in reply to his inquiry.
The waiter led the way upstairs as he was desired, and the manin the rough coat followed, with Sam behind him, who, in hisprogress up the staircase, indulged in sundry gestures indicativeof supreme contempt and defiance, to the unspeakablegratification of the servants and other lookers-on. Mr. Smouch,who was troubled with a hoarse cough, remained below, andexpectorated in the passage.
Mr. Pickwick was fast asleep in bed, when his early visitor,followed by Sam, entered the room. The noise they made, in sodoing, awoke him.
‘Shaving-water, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, from within thecurtains.
‘Shave you directly, Mr. Pickwick,’ said the visitor, drawing oneof them back from the bed’s head. ‘I’ve got an execution againstyou, at the suit of Bardell.―Here’s the warrant.―CommonPleas.―Here’s my card. I suppose you’ll come over to my house.’
Giving Mr. Pickwick a friendly tap on the shoulder, the sheriff’sofficer (for such he was) threw his card on the counterpane, andpulled a gold toothpick from his waistcoat pocket.
‘Namby’s the name,’ said the sheriff’s deputy, as Mr. Pickwicktook his spectacles from under the pillow, and put them on, toread the card. ‘Namby, Bell Alley, Coleman Street.’
At this point, Sam Weller, who had had his eyes fixed hithertoon Mr. Namby’s shining beaver, interfered.
‘Are you a Quaker?’ said Sam.
‘I’ll let you know I am, before I’ve done with you,’ replied theindignant officer. ‘I’ll teach you manners, my fine fellow, one ofthese fine mornings.’
‘Thank’ee,’ said Sam. ‘I’ll do the same to you. Take your hat off.’
With this, Mr. Weller, in the most dexterous manner, knocked Mr.
Namby’s hat to the other side of the room, with such violence, thathe had very nearly caused him to swallow the gold toothpick intothe bargain.
‘Observe this, Mr. Pickwick,’ said the disconcerted officer,gasping for breath. ‘I’ve been assaulted in the execution of mydooty by your servant in your chamber. I’m in bodily fear. I callyou to witness this.’
‘Don’t witness nothin’, sir,’ interposed Sam. ‘Shut your eyes uptight, sir. I’d pitch him out o’ winder, only he couldn’t fall farenough, ‘cause o’ the leads outside.’
‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, in an angry voice, as his attendantmade various demonstrations of hostilities, ‘if you say anotherword, or offer the slightest interference with this person, Idischarge you that instant.’
‘But, sir!’ said Sam.
‘Hold your tongue,’ interposed Mr. Pickwick. ‘Take that hat upagain.’
But this Sam flatly and positively refused to do; and, after hehad been severely reprimanded by his master, the officer, being ina hurry, condescended to pick it up himself, venting a greatvariety of threats against Sam meanwhile, which that gentlemanreceived with perfect composure, merely observing that if Mr.
Namby would have the goodness to put his hat on again, he wouldknock it into the latter end of next week. Mr. Namby, perhapsthinking that such a process might be productive of inconvenienceto himself, declined to offer the temptation, and, soon after, calledup Smouch. Having informed him that the capture was made, andthat he was to wait for the prisoner until he should have finisheddressing, Namby then swaggered out, and drove away. Smouch,requesting Mr. Pickwick in a surly manner ‘to be as alive as hecould, for it was a busy time,’ drew up a chair by the door and satthere, until he had finished dressing. Sam was then despatched fora hackney-coach, and in it the triumvirate proceeded to ColemanStreet. It was fortunate the distance was short; for Mr. Smouch,besides possessing no very enchanting conversational powers, wasrendered a decidedly unpleasant companion in a limited space, bythe physical weakness to which we have elsewhere adverted.
The coach having turned into a very narrow and dark street,stopped before a house with iron bars to all the windows; the door-posts of which were graced by the name and title of ‘Namby,Officer to the Sheriffs of London’; the inner gate having beenopened by a gentleman who might have passed for a neglectedtwin-brother of Mr. Smouch, and who was endowed with a largekey for the purpose, Mr. Pickwick was shown into the ‘coffee-room.’
This coffee-room was a front parlour, the principal features ofwhich were fresh sand and stale tobacco smoke. Mr. Pickwickbowed to the three persons who were seated in it when heentered; and having despatched Sam for Perker, withdrew into anobscure corner, and looked thence with some curiosity upon hisnew companions.
One of these was a mere boy of nineteen or twenty, who, thoughit was yet barely ten o’clock, was drinking gin-and-water, andsmoking a cigar―amusements to which, judging from his inflamedcountenance, he had devoted himself pretty constantly for the lastyear or two of his life. Opposite him, engaged in stirring the firewith the toe of his right boot, was a coarse, vulgar young man ofabout thirty, with a sallow face and harsh voice; evidentlypossessed of that knowledge of the world, and captivating freedomof manner, which is to be acquired in public-house parlours, andat low billiard tables. The third tenant of the apartment was amiddle-aged man in a very old suit of black, who looked pale andhaggard, and paced up and down the room incessantly; stopping,now and then, to look with great anxiety out of the window as if heexpected somebody, and then resuming his walk.
‘You’d better have the loan of my razor this morning, Mr.
Ayresleigh,’ said the man who was stirring the fire, tipping thewink to his friend the boy.
‘Thank you, no, I shan’t want it; I expect I shall be out, in thecourse of an hour or so,’ replied the other in a hurried manner.
Then, walking again up to the window, and once more returningdisappointed, he sighed deeply, and left the room; upon which theother two burst into a loud laugh.
‘Well, I never saw such a game as that,’ said the gentleman whohad offered the razor, whose name appeared to be Price. ‘Never!’
Mr. Price confirmed the assertion with an oath, and then laughedagain, when of course the boy (who thought his companion one ofthe most dashing fellows alive) laughed also.
‘You’d hardly think, would you now,’ said Price, turningtowards Mr. Pickwick, ‘that that chap’s been here a weekyesterday, and never once shaved himself yet, because he feels socertain he’s going out in half an hour’s time, thinks he may as wellput it off till he gets home?’
‘Poor man!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Are his chances of getting out ofhis difficulties really so great?’
‘Chances be d―d,’ replied Price; ‘he hasn’t half the ghost ofone. I wouldn’t give that for his chance of walking about the streetsthis time ten years.’ With this, Mr. Price snapped his fingerscontemptuously, and rang the bell.
‘Give me a sheet of paper, Crookey,’ said Mr. Price to theattendant, who in dress and general appearance looked somethingbetween a bankrupt glazier, and a drover in a state of insolvency;‘and a glass of brandy-and-water, Crookey, d’ye hear? I’m going towrite to my father, and I must have a stimulant, or I shan’t be ableto pitch it strong enough into the old boy.’ At this facetious speech,the young boy, it is almost needless to say, was fairly convulsed.
‘That’s right,’ said Mr. Price. ‘Never say die. All fun, ain’t it?’
‘Prime!’ said the young gentleman.
‘You’ve got some spirit about you, you have,’ said Price. ‘You’veseen something of life.’
‘I rather think I have!’ replied the boy. He had looked at itthrough the dirty panes of glass in a bar door.
Mr. Pickwick, feeling not a little disgusted with this dialogue, aswell as with the air and manner of the two beings by whom it hadbeen carried on, was about to inquire whether he could not beaccommodated with a private sitting-room, when two or threestrangers of genteel appearance entered, at sight of whom the boythrew his cigar into the fire, and whispering to Mr. Price that theyhad come to ‘make it all right’ for him, joined them at a table in thefarther end of the room.
It would appear, however, that matters were not going to bemade all right quite so speedily as the young gentlemananticipated; for a very long conversation ensued, of which Mr.
Pickwick could not avoid hearing certain angry fragmentsregarding dissolute conduct, and repeated forgiveness. At last,there were very distinct allusions made by the oldest gentleman ofthe party to one Whitecross Street, at which the young gentleman,notwithstanding his primeness and his spirit, and his knowledgeof life into the bargain, reclined his head upon the table, andhowled dismally.
Very much satisfied with this sudden bringing down of theyouth’s valour, and this effectual lowering of his tone, Mr.
Pickwick rang the bell, and was shown, at his own request, into aprivate room furnished with a carpet, table, chairs, sideboard andsofa, and ornamented with a looking-glass, and various old prints.
Here he had the advantage of hearing Mrs. Namby’s performanceon a square piano overhead, while the breakfast was getting ready;when it came, Mr. Perker came too.
‘Aha, my dear sir,’ said the little man, ‘nailed at last, eh? Come,come, I’m not sorry for it either, because now you’ll see theabsurdity of this conduct. I’ve noted down the amount of the taxedcosts and damages for which the ca-sa was issued, and we hadbetter settle at once and lose no time. Namby is come home by thistime, I dare say. What say you, my dear sir? Shall I draw a cheque,or will you?’ The little man rubbed his hands with affectedcheerfulness as he said this, but glancing at Mr. Pickwick’scountenance, could not forbear at the same time casting adesponding look towards Sam Weller.
‘Perker,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘let me hear no more of this, I beg. Isee no advantage in staying here, so I Shall go to prison to-night.’
‘You can’t go to Whitecross Street, my dear sir,’ said Perker.
‘Impossible! There are sixty beds in a ward; and the bolt’s on,sixteen hours out of the four-and-twenty.’
‘I would rather go to some other place of confinement if I can,’
said Mr. Pickwick. ‘If not, I must make the best I can of that.’
‘You can go to the Fleet, my dear sir, if you’re determined to gosomewher............