ILLUSTRATIVE, LIKE THE PRECEDING ONE,OF THE OLD PROVERB, THAT ADVERSITYBRINGS A MAN ACQUAINTED WITH STRANGEBEDFELLOWS―LIKEWISE CONTAINING Mr.

　　PICKWICK’S EXTRAORDINARY ANDSTARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT TO Mr.

　　SAMUEL WELLERhen Mr. Pickwick opened his eyes next morning, thefirst object upon which they rested was Samuel Weller,seated upon a small black portmanteau, intentlyregarding, apparently in a condition of profound abstraction, thestately figure of the dashing Mr. Smangle; while Mr. Smanglehimself, who was already partially dressed, was seated on hisbedstead, occupied in the desperately hopeless attempt of staringMr. Weller out of countenance. We say desperately hopeless,because Sam, with a comprehensive gaze which took in Mr.

　　Smangle’s cap, feet, head, face, legs, and whiskers, all at the sametime, continued to look steadily on, with every demonstration oflively satisfaction, but with no more regard to Mr. Smangle’spersonal sentiments on the subject than he would have displayedhad he been inspecting a wooden statue, or a straw-embowelledGuy Fawkes.

　　‘Well; will you know me again?’ said Mr. Smangle, with a frown.

　　‘I’d svear to you anyveres, sir,’ replied Sam cheerfully.

　　‘Don’t be impertinent to a gentleman, sir,’ said Mr. Smangle.

　　‘Not on no account,’ replied Sam. ‘If you’ll tell me wen hewakes, I’ll be upon the wery best extra-super behaviour!’ Thisobservation, having a remote tendency to imply that Mr. Smanglewas no gentleman, kindled his ire.

　　‘Mivins!’ said Mr. Smangle, with a passionate air.

　　‘What’s the office?’ replied that gentleman from his couch.

　　‘Who the devil is this fellow?’

　　‘‘Gad,’ said Mr. Mivins, looking lazily out from under the bed-clothes, ‘I ought to ask you that. Hasn’t he any business here?’

　　‘No,’ replied Mr. Smangle. ‘Then knock him downstairs, andtell him not to presume to get up till I come and kick him,’ rejoinedMr. Mivins; with this prompt advice that excellent gentlemanagain betook himself to slumber.

　　The conversation exhibiting these unequivocal symptoms ofverging on the personal, Mr. Pickwick deemed it a fit point atwhich to interpose.

　　‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Sir,’ rejoined that gentleman.

　　‘Has anything new occurred since last night?’

　　‘Nothin’ partickler, sir,’ replied Sam, glancing at Mr. Smangle’swhiskers; ‘the late prewailance of a close and confined atmospherehas been rayther favourable to the growth of veeds, of an alarmin’

　　and sangvinary natur; but vith that ’ere exception things is quietenough.’

　　‘I shall get up,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘give me some clean things.’

　　Whatever hostile intentions Mr. Smangle might have entertained,his thoughts were speedily diverted by the unpacking of theportmanteau; the contents of which appeared to impress him atonce with a most favourable opinion, not only of Mr. Pickwick, butof Sam also, who, he took an early opportunity of declaring in atone of voice loud enough for that eccentric personage tooverhear, was a regular thoroughbred original, and consequentlythe very man after his own heart. As to Mr. Pickwick, the affectionhe conceived for him knew no limits.

　　‘Now is there anything I can do for you, my dear sir?’ saidSmangle.

　　‘Nothing that I am aware of, I am obliged to you,’ replied Mr.

　　Pickwick.

　　‘No linen that you want sent to the washerwoman’s? I know adelightful washerwoman outside, that comes for my things twice aweek; and, by Jove!―how devilish lucky!―this is the day she calls.

　　Shall I put any of those little things up with mine? Don’t sayanything about the trouble. Confound and curse it! if onegentleman under a cloud is not to put himself a little out of theway to assist another gentleman in the same condition, what’shuman nature?’

　　Thus spake Mr. Smangle, edging himself meanwhile as near aspossible to the portmanteau, and beaming forth looks of the mostfervent and disinterested friendship.

　　‘There’s nothing you want to give out for the man to brush, mydear creature, is there?’ resumed Smangle.

　　‘Nothin’ whatever, my fine feller,’ rejoined Sam, taking thereply into his own mouth. ‘P’raps if vun of us wos to brush,without troubling the man, it ’ud be more agreeable for all parties,as the schoolmaster said when the young gentleman objected tobeing flogged by the butler.’

　　‘And there’s nothing I can send in my little box to the washer-woman’s, is there?’ said Smangle, turning from Sam to Mr.

　　Pickwick, with an air of some discomfiture.

　　‘Nothin’ whatever, sir,’ retorted Sam; ‘I’m afeered the little boxmust be chock full o’ your own as it is.’

　　This speech was accompanied with such a very expressive lookat that particular portion of Mr. Smangle’s attire, by theappearance of which the skill of laundresses in getting upgentlemen’s linen is generally tested, that he was fain to turn uponhis heel, and, for the present at any rate, to give up all design onMr. Pickwick’s purse and wardrobe. He accordingly retired indudgeon to the racket-ground, where he made a light and whole-some breakfast on a couple of the cigars which had beenpurchased on the previous night. Mr. Mivins, who was no smoker,and whose account for small articles of chandlery had alsoreached down to the bottom of the slate, and been ‘carried over’ tothe other side, remained in bed, and , in his own words, ‘took it outin sleep.’

　　After breakfasting in a small closet attached to the coffee-room,which bore the imposing title of the Snuggery, the temporaryinmate of which, in consideration of a small additional charge, hadthe unspeakable advantage of overhearing all the conversation inthe coffee-room aforesaid; and, after despatching Mr. Weller onsome necessary errands, Mr. Pickwick repaired to the lodge, toconsult Mr. Roker concerning his future accommodation.

　　‘Accommodation, eh?’ said that gentleman, consulting a largebook. ‘Plenty of that, Mr. Pickwick. Your chummage ticket will beon twenty-seven, in the third.’

　　‘Oh,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘My what, did you say?’

　　‘Your chummage ticket,’ replied Mr. Roker; ‘you’re up to that?’ ‘Not quite,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.

　　‘Why,’ said Mr. Roker, ‘it’s as plain as Salisbury. You’ll have achummage ticket upon twenty-seven in the third, and them as is inthe room will be your chums.’

　　‘Are there many of them?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick dubiously.

　　‘Three,’ replied Mr. Roker.

　　Mr. Pickwick coughed.

　　‘One of ’em’s a parson,’ said Mr. Roker, filling up a little piece ofpaper as he spoke; ‘another’s a butcher.’

　　‘Eh?’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘A butcher,’ repeated Mr. Roker, giving the nib of his pen a tapon the desk to cure it of a disinclination to mark. ‘What athorough-paced goer he used to be sure-ly! You remember TomMartin, Neddy?’ said Roker, appealing to another man in thelodge, who was paring the mud off his shoes with a five-and-twenty-bladed pocket-knife.

　　‘I should think so,’ replied the party addressed, with a strongemphasis on the personal pronoun.

　　‘Bless my dear eyes!’ said Mr. Roker, shaking his head slowlyfrom side to side, and gazing abstractedly out of the gratedwindows before him, as if he were fondly recalling some peacefulscene of his early youth; ‘it seems but yesterday that he whoppedthe coal-heaver down Fox-under-the-Hill by the wharf there. Ithink I can see him now, a-coming up the Strand between the twostreet-keepers, a little sobered by the bruising, with a patch o’

　　winegar and brown paper over his right eyelid, and that ’ere lovelybulldog, as pinned the little boy arterwards, a-following at hisheels. What a rum thing time is, ain’t it, Neddy?’

　　The gentleman to whom these observations were addressed,who appeared of a taciturn and thoughtful cast, merely echoed theinquiry; Mr. Roker, shaking off the poetical and gloomy train ofthought into which he had been betrayed, descended to thecommon business of life, and resumed his pen.

　　‘Do you know what the third gentlemen is?’ inquired Mr.

　　Pickwick, not very much gratified by this description of his futureassociates.

　　‘What is that Simpson, Neddy?’ said Mr. Roker, turning to hiscompanion.

　　‘What Simpson?’ said Neddy.

　　‘Why, him in twenty-seven in the third, that this gentleman’sgoing to be chummed on.’

　　‘Oh, him!’ replied Neddy; ‘he’s nothing exactly. He was a horsechaunter: he’s a leg now.’

　　‘Ah, so I thought,’ rejoined Mr. Roker, closing the book, andplacing the small piece of paper in Mr. Pickwick’s hands. ‘That’sthe ticket, sir.’

　　Very much perplexed by this summary disposition of thisperson, Mr. Pickwick walked back into the prison, revolving in hismind what he had better do. Convinced, however, that before hetook any other steps it would be advisable to see, and holdpersonal converse with, the three gentlemen with whom it wasproposed to quarter him, he made the best of his way to the thirdflight.

　　After groping about in the gallery for some time, attempting inthe dim light to decipher the numbers on the different doors, he atlength appealed to a pot-boy, who happened to be pursuing hismorning occupation of gleaning for pewter.

　　‘Which is twenty-seven, my good fellow?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Five doors farther on,’ replied the pot-boy. ‘There’s thelikeness of a man being hung, and smoking the while, chalkedoutside the door.’

　　Guided by this direction, Mr. Pickwick proceeded slowly alongthe gallery until he encountered the ‘portrait of a gentleman,’

　　above described, upon whose countenance he tapped, with theknuckle of his forefinger―gently at first, and then audibly. Afterrepeating this process several times without effect, he ventured toopen the door and peep in.

　　There was only one man in the room, and he was leaning out ofwindow as far as he could without overbalancing himself,endeavouring, with great perseverance, to spit upon the crown ofthe hat of a personal friend on the parade below. As neitherspeaking, coughing, sneezing, knocking, nor any other ordinarymode of attracting attention, made this person aware of thepresence of a visitor, Mr. Pickwick, after some delay, stepped up tothe window, and pulled him gently by the coat tail. The individualbrought in his head and shoulders with great swiftness, andsurveying Mr. Pickwick from head to foot, demanded in a surlytone what the―something beginning with a capital H―he wanted.

　　‘I believe,’ said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his ticket―‘I believethis is twenty-seven in the third?’

　　‘Well?’ replied the gentleman.

　　‘I have come here in consequence of receiving this bit of paper,’

　　rejoined Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Hand it over,’ said the gentleman.

　　Mr. Pickwick complied.

　　‘I think Roker might have chummed you somewhere else,’ saidMr. Simpson (for it was the leg), after a very discontented sort of apause.

　　Mr. Pickwick thought so also; but, under all the circumstances,he considered it a matter of sound policy to be silent. Mr. Simpsonmused for a few moments after this, and then, thrusting his headout of the window, gave a shrill whistle, and pronounced someword aloud, several times. What the word was, Mr. Pickwick couldnot distinguish; but he rather inferred that it must be somenickname which distinguished Mr. Martin, from the fact of a greatnumber of gentlemen on the ground below, immediatelyproceeding to cry ‘Butcher!’ in imitation of the tone in which thatuseful class of society are wont, diurnally, to make their presenceknown at area railings.

　　Subsequent occurrences confirmed the accuracy of Mr.

　　Pickwick’s impression; for, in a few seconds, a gentleman,prematurely broad for his years, clothed in a professional bluejean frock and top-boots with circular toes, entered the roomnearly out of breath, closely followed by another gentleman in veryshabby black, and a sealskin cap. The latter gentleman, whofastened his coat all the way up to his chin by means of a pin and abutton alternately, had a very coarse red face, and looked like adrunken chaplain; which, indeed, he was.

　　These two gentlemen having by turns perused Mr. Pickwick’sbillet, the one expressed his opinion that it was ‘a rig,’ and theother his conviction that it was ‘a go.’ Having recorded theirfeelings in these very intelligible terms, they looked at Mr.

　　Pickwick and each other in awkward silence.

　　‘It’s an aggravating thing, just as we got the beds so snug,’ saidthe chaplain, looking at three dirty mattresses, each rolled up in ablanket; which occupied one corner of the room during the day,and formed a kind of slab, on which were placed an old crackedbasin, ewer, and soap-dish, of common yellow earthenware, with ablue flower―‘very aggravating.’

　　Mr. Martin expressed the same opinion in rather strongerterms; Mr. Simpson, after having let a variety of expletiveadjectives loose upon society without any substantive toaccompany them, tucked up his sleeves, and began to wash thegreens for dinner.

　　While this was going on, Mr. Pickwick had been eyeing theroom, which was filthily dirty, and smelt intolerably close. Therewas no vestige of either carpet, curtain, or blind. There was noteven a closet in it. Unquestionably there were but few things toput away, if there had been one; but, however few in number, orsmall in individual amount, still, remnants of loaves and pieces ofcheese, and damp towels, and scrags of meat, and articles ofwearing apparel, and mutilated crockery, and bellows withoutnozzles, and toasting-forks without prongs, do present somewhatof an uncomfortable appearance when they are scattered aboutthe floor of a small apartment, which is the common sitting andsleeping room of three idle men.

　　‘I suppose this can be managed somehow,’ said the butcher,after a pretty long silence. ‘What will you take to go out?’

　　‘I beg your pardon,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘What did you say? Ihardly understand you.’

　　‘What will you take to be paid out?’ said the butcher. ‘Theregular chummage is two-and-six. Will you take three bob?’

　　‘And a bender,’ suggested the clerical gentleman.

　　‘Well, I don’t mind that; it’s only twopence a piece more,’ saidMr. Martin. ‘What do you say, now? We’ll pay you out for three-and-sixpence a week. Come!’

　　‘And stand a gallon of beer down,’ chimed in Mr. Simpson.

　　‘There!’

　　‘And drink it on the spot,’ said the chaplain. ‘Now!’

　　‘I really am so wholly ignorant of the rules of this place,’

　　returned Mr. Pickwick, ‘that I do not yet comprehend you. Can Ilive anywhere else? I thought I could not.’

　　At this inquiry Mr. Martin looked, with a countenance ofexcessive surprise, at his two friends, and then each gentlemanpointed with his right thumb over his left shoulder. This actionimperfectly described in words by the very feeble term of ‘over theleft,’ when performed by any number of ladies or gentlemen whoare accustomed to act in unison, has a very graceful and airyeffect; its expression is one of light and playful sarcasm.

　　‘Can you!’ repeated Mr. Martin, with a smile of pity.

　　‘Well, if I knew as little of life as that, I’d eat my hat and swallowthe buckle whole,’ said the clerical gentleman.

　　‘So would I,’ added the sporting one solemnly.

　　After this introductory preface, the three chums informed Mr.

　　Pickwick, in a breath, that money was, in the Fleet, just whatmoney was out of it; that it would instantly procure him almostanything he desired; and that, supposing he had it, and had noobjection to spend it, if he only signified his wish to have a room tohimself, he might take possession of one, furnished and fitted toboot, in half an hour’s time.

　　With this the parties separated, very much to their commonsatisfaction; Mr. Pickwick once more retracing his steps to thelodge, and the three companions adjourning to the coffee-room,there to spend the five shillings which the clerical gentleman had,with admirable prudence and foresight, borrowed of him for thepurpose.

　　‘I knowed it!’ said Mr. Roker, with a chuckle, when Mr.

　　Pickwick stated the object with which he had returned. ‘Didn’t Isay so, Neddy?’

　　The philosophical owner of the universal penknife growled anaffirmative.

　　‘I knowed you’d want a room for yourself, bless............