TREATS OF DIVERS LITTLE MATTERS WHICHOCCURRED IN THE FLEET, AND OF Mr.

　　WINKLE’S MYSTERIOUS BEHAVIOUR; ANDSHOWS HOW THE POOR CHANCERYPRISONER OBTAINED HIS RELEASE AT LASTr. Pickwick felt a great deal too much touched by thewarmth of Sam’s attachment, to be able to exhibit anymanifestation of anger or displeasure at the precipitatecourse he had adopted, in voluntarily consigning himself to adebtor’s prison for an indefinite period. The only point on whichhe persevered in demanding an explanation, was, the name ofSam’s detaining creditor; but this Mr. Weller as perseveringlywithheld.

　　‘It ain’t o’ no use, sir,’ said Sam, again and again; ‘he’s a ma-licious, bad-disposed, vorldly-minded, spiteful, windictive creetur,with a hard heart as there ain’t no soft’nin’, as the wirtuousclergyman remarked of the old gen’l’m’n with the dropsy, ven hesaid, that upon the whole he thought he’d rayther leave hisproperty to his vife than build a chapel vith it.’

　　‘But consider, Sam,’ Mr. Pickwick remonstrated, ‘the sum is sosmall that it can very easily be paid; and having made up My mindthat you shall stop with me, you should recollect how much moreuseful you would be, if you could go outside the walls.’

　　‘Wery much obliged to you, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller gravely; ‘butI’d rayther not.’

　　‘Rather not do what, Sam?’

　　‘Wy, I’d rayther not let myself down to ask a favour o’ this hereunremorseful enemy.’

　　‘But it is no favour asking him to take his money, Sam,’

　　reasoned Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ rejoined Sam, ‘but it ’ud be a wery greatfavour to pay it, and he don’t deserve none; that’s where it is, sir.’

　　Here Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his nose with an air of somevexation, Mr. Weller thought it prudent to change the theme of thediscourse.

　　‘I takes my determination on principle, sir,’ remarked Sam,‘and you takes yours on the same ground; wich puts me in mind o’

　　the man as killed his-self on principle, wich o’ course you’ve heerdon, sir.’ Mr. Weller paused when he arrived at this point, and casta comical look at his master out of the corners of his eyes.

　　‘There is no “of course” in the case, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick,gradually breaking into a smile, in spite of the uneasiness whichSam’s obstinacy had given him. ‘The fame of the gentleman inquestion, never reached my ears.’

　　‘No, sir!’ exclaimed Mr. Weller. ‘You astonish me, sir; he wos aclerk in a gov’ment office, sir.’

　　‘Was he?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘Yes, he wos, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller; ‘and a wery pleasantgen’l’m’n too―one o’ the precise and tidy sort, as puts their feet inlittle India-rubber fire-buckets wen it’s wet weather, and neverhas no other bosom friends but hare-skins; he saved up his moneyon principle, wore a clean shirt ev’ry day on principle; never spoketo none of his relations on principle, ‘fear they shou’d want toborrow money of him; and wos altogether, in fact, an uncommonagreeable character. He had his hair cut on principle vunce afortnight, and contracted for his clothes on the economicprinciple―three suits a year, and send back the old uns. Being awery reg’lar gen’l’m’n, he din’d ev’ry day at the same place, whereit was one-and-nine to cut off the joint, and a wery good one-and-nine’s worth he used to cut, as the landlord often said, with thetears a-tricklin’ down his face, let alone the way he used to pokethe fire in the vinter time, which wos a dead loss o’ four-penceha’penny a day, to say nothin’ at all o’ the aggrawation o’ seein’

　　him do it. So uncommon grand with it too! “POST arter the nextgen’l’m’n,” he sings out ev’ry day ven he comes in. “See arter theTimes, Thomas; let me look at the Mornin’ Herald, when it’s out o’

　　hand; don’t forget to bespeak the Chronicle; and just bring the’Tizer, vill you:” and then he’d set vith his eyes fixed on the clock,and rush out, just a quarter of a minit ’fore the time to waylay theboy as wos a-comin’ in with the evenin’ paper, which he’d readwith sich intense interest and persewerance as worked the othercustomers up to the wery confines o’ desperation and insanity,’specially one i-rascible old gen’l’m’n as the vaiter wos alwaysobliged to keep a sharp eye on, at sich times, fear he should betempted to commit some rash act with the carving-knife. Vell, sir,here he’d stop, occupyin’ the best place for three hours, and nevertakin’ nothin’ arter his dinner, but sleep, and then he’d go away toa coffee-house a few streets off, and have a small pot o’ coffee andfour crumpets, arter wich he’d walk home to Kensington and go tobed. One night he wos took very ill; sends for a doctor; doctorcomes in a green fly, with a kind o’ Robinson Crusoe set o’ steps,as he could let down wen he got out, and pull up arter him wen hegot in, to perwent the necessity o’ the coachman’s gettin’ down,and thereby undeceivin’ the public by lettin’ ’em see that it wosonly a livery coat as he’d got on, and not the trousers to match.

　　“Wot’s the matter?” says the doctor. “Wery ill,” says the patient.

　　“Wot have you been a-eatin’ on?” says the doctor. “Roast weal,”

　　says the patient. “Wot’s the last thing you dewoured?” says thedoctor. “Crumpets,” says the patient. “That’s it!” says the doctor.

　　“I’ll send you a box of pills directly, and don’t you never take nomore of ’em,” he says. “No more o’ wot?” says the patient―“pills?” “No; crumpets,” says the doctor. “Wy?” says the patient,starting up in bed; “I’ve eat four crumpets, ev’ry night for fifteenyear, on principle.” “Well, then, you’d better leave ’em off, onprinciple,” says the doctor. “Crumpets is not wholesome, sir,” saysthe doctor, wery fierce. “But they’re so cheap,” says the patient,comin’ down a little, “and so wery fillin’ at the price.” “They’d bedear to you, at any price; dear if you wos paid to eat ’em,” says thedoctor. “Four crumpets a night,” he says, “vill do your business insix months!” The patient looks him full in the face, and turns itover in his mind for a long time, and at last he says, “Are you sureo’ that ’ere, sir?” “I’ll stake my professional reputation on it,” saysthe doctor. “How many crumpets, at a sittin’, do you think ’ud killme off at once?” says the patient. “I don’t know,” says the doctor.

　　“Do you think half-a-crown’s wurth ’ud do it?” says the patient. “Ithink it might,” says the doctor. “Three shillins’ wurth ’ud be sureto do it, I s’pose?” says the patient. “Certainly,” says the doctor.

　　“Wery good,” says the patient; “good-night.” Next mornin’ he getsup, has a fire lit, orders in three shillins’ wurth o’ crumpets, toasts’em all, eats ’em all, and blows his brains out.’

　　‘What did he do that for?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly; forhe was considerably startled by this tragical termination of thenarrative.

　　‘Wot did he do it for, sir?’ reiterated Sam. ‘Wy, in support of hisgreat principle that crumpets wos wholesome, and to show that hewouldn’t be put out of his way for nobody!’ With such like shiftingsand changings of the discourse, did Mr. Weller meet his master’squestioning on the night of his taking up his residence in theFleet. Finding all gentle remonstrance useless, Mr. Pickwick atlength yielded a reluctant consent to his taking lodgings by theweek, of a bald-headed cobbler, who rented a small slip room inone of the upper galleries. To this humble apartment Mr. Wellermoved a mattress and bedding, which he hired of Mr. Roker; and,by the time he lay down upon it at night, was as much at home asif he had been bred in the prison, and his whole family hadvegetated therein for three generations.

　　‘Do you always smoke arter you goes to bed, old cock?’ inquiredMr. Weller of his landlord, when they had both retired for thenight.

　　‘Yes, I does, young bantam,’ replied the cobbler.

　　‘Will you allow me to in-quire wy you make up your bed underthat ’ere deal table?’ said Sam.

　　‘’Cause I was always used to a four-poster afore I came here,and I find the legs of the table answer just as well,’ replied thecobbler.

　　‘You’re a character, sir,’ said Sam.

　　‘I haven’t got anything of the kind belonging to me,’ rejoinedthe cobbler, shaking his head; ‘and if you want to meet with a goodone, I’m afraid you’ll find some difficulty in suiting yourself at thisregister office.’

　　The above short dialogue took place as Mr. Weller lay extendedon his mattress at one end of the room, and the cobbler on his, atthe other; the apartment being illumined by the light of a rush-candle, and the cobbler’s pipe, which was glowing below the table,like a red-hot coal. The conversation, brief as it was, predisposedMr. Weller strongly in his landlord’s favour; and, raising himselfon his elbow, he took a more lengthened survey of his appearancethan he had yet had either time or inclination to make.

　　He was a sallow man―all cobblers are; and had a strong bristlybeard―all cobblers have. His face was a queer, good-tempered,crooked-featured piece of workmanship, ornamented with acouple of eyes that must have worn a very joyous expression atone time, for they sparkled yet. The man was sixty, by years, andHeaven knows how old by imprisonment, so that his having anylook approaching to mirth or contentment, was singular enough.

　　He was a little man, and, being half doubled up as he lay in bed,looked about as long as he ought to have been without his legs. Hehad a great red pipe in his mouth, and was smoking, and staring atthe rush-light, in a state of enviable placidity.

　　‘Have you been here long?’ inquired Sam, breaking the silencewhich had lasted for some time.

　　‘Twelve year,’ replied the cobbler, biting the end of his pipe ashe spoke.

　　‘Contempt?’ inquired Sam. The cobbler nodded.

　　‘Well, then,’ said Sam, with some sternness, ‘wot do youpersevere in bein’ obstinit for, vastin’ your precious life away, inthis here magnified pound? Wy don’t you give in, and tell theChancellorship that you’re wery sorry for makin’ his courtcontemptible, and you won’t do so no more?’

　　The cobbler put his pipe in the corner of his mouth, while hesmiled, and then brought it back to its old place again; but saidnothing.

　　‘Wy don’t you?’ said Sam, urging his question strenuously.

　　‘Ah,’ said the cobbler, ‘you don’t quite understand thesematters. What do you suppose ruined me, now?’

　　‘Wy,’ said Sam, trimming the rush-light, ‘I s’pose the beginnin’

　　wos, that you got into debt, eh?’

　　‘Never owed a farden,’ said the cobbler; ‘try again.’

　　‘Well, perhaps,’ said Sam, ‘you bought houses, wich is delicateEnglish for goin’ mad; or took to buildin’, wich is a medical termfor bein’ incurable.’

　　The cobbler shook his head and said, ‘Try again.’

　　‘You didn’t go to law, I hope?’ said Sam suspiciously. ‘Never inmy life,’ replied the cobbler. ‘The fact is, I was ruined by havingmoney left me.’

　　‘Come, come,’ said Sam, ‘that von’t do. I wish some rich enemy’ud try to vork my destruction in that ’ere vay. I’d let him.’

　　‘Oh, I dare say you don’t believe it,’ said the cobbler, quietlysmoking his pipe. ‘I wouldn’t if I was you; but it’s true for all that.’

　　‘How wos it?’ inquired Sam, half induced to believe the factalready, by the look the cobbler gave him.

　　‘Just this,’ replied the cobbler; ‘an old gentleman that I workedfor, down in the country, and a humble relation of whose Imarried―she’s dead, God bless her, and thank Him for it!―wasseized with a fit and went off.’

　　‘Where?’ inquired Sam, who was growing sleepy after thenumerous events of the day.

　　‘How should I know where he went?’ said the cobbler, speakingthrough his nose in an intense enjoyment of his pipe. ‘He went offdead.’

　　‘Oh, that indeed,’ said Sam. ‘Well?’

　　‘Well,’ said the cobbler, ‘he left five thousand pound behindhim.’

　　‘And wery gen-teel in him so to do,’ said Sam.

　　‘One of which,’ continued the cobbler, ‘he left to me, ‘cause Imarried his relation, you see.’

　　‘Wery good,’ murmured Sam.

　　‘And being surrounded by a great number of nieces and nevys,as was always quarrelling and fighting among themselves for theproperty, he makes me his executor, and leaves the rest to me intrust, to divide it among ’em as the will prowided.’

　　‘Wot do you mean by leavin’ it on trust?’ inquired Sam, wakingup a little. ‘If it ain’t ready-money, were’s the use on it?’

　　‘It’s a law term, that’s all,’ said the cobbler.

　　‘I don’t think that,’ said Sam, shaking his head. ‘There’s werylittle trust at that shop. Hows’ever, go on.’

　　‘Well,’ said the cobbler, ‘when I was going to take out a probateof the will, the nieces and nevys, who was desperatelydisappointed at not getting all the money, enters a caveat againstit.’

　　‘What’s that?’ inquired Sam.

　　‘A legal instrument, which is as much as to say, it’s no go,’

　　replied the cobbler.

　　‘I see,’ said Sam, ‘a sort of brother-in-law o’ the have-his-carcass. Well.’

　　‘But,’ continued the cobbler, ‘finding that they couldn’t agreeamong themselves, and consequently couldn’t get up a caseagainst the will, they withdrew the caveat, and I paid all thelegacies. I’d hardly done it, when one nevy brings an action to setthe will aside. The case comes on, some months afterwards, aforea deaf old gentleman, in a back room somewhere down by Paul’sChurchyard; and arter four counsels had taken a day a-piece tobother him regularly, he takes a week or two to consider, and readthe evidence in six volumes, and then gives his judgment that howthe testator was not quite right in his head, and I must pay all themoney back again, and all the costs. I appealed; the case come onbefore three or four very sleepy gentlemen, who had heard it allbefore in the other court, where they’re lawyers without work; theonly difference being, that, there, they’re called doctors, and in theother place delegates, if you understand that; and they verydutifully confirmed the decision of the old gentleman below. Afterthat, we went into Chancery, where we are still, and where I shallalways be. My lawyers have had all my thousand pound long ago;and what between the estate, as they call it, and the costs, I’m herefor ten thousand, and shall stop here, till I die, mending shoes.

　　Some gentlemen have talked of bringing it before Parliament, andI dare say would have done it, only they hadn’t time to come to me,and I hadn’t power to go to them, and they got tired of my longletters, and dropped the business. And this is God’s truth, withoutone word of suppression or exaggeration, as fifty people, both inthis place and out of it, very well know.’

　　The cobbler paused to ascertain what effect his story hadproduced on Sam; but finding that he had dropped asleep,knocked the ashes out of his pipe, sighed, put it down, drew thebed-clothes over his head, and went to sleep, too.

　　Mr. Pickwick was sitting at breakfast, alone, next morning (Sambeing busily engaged in the cobbler’s room, polishing his master’sshoes and brushing the black gaiters) when there came a knock atthe door, which, before Mr. Pickwick ............