Illustrative of the convivial Sentiment, that the bestof Friends must sometimes part.

　　The pavement of Snow Hill had been baking and frying allday in the heat, and the twain Saracens’ heads guardingthe entrance to the hostelry of whose name and sign theyare the duplicate presentments, looked—or seemed, in the eyes ofjaded and footsore passers-by, to look—more vicious than usual,after blistering and scorching in the sun, when, in one of the inn’ssmallest sitting-rooms, through whose open window there rose, ina palpable steam, wholesome exhalations from reeking coach-horses, the usual furniture of a tea-table was displayed in neat andinviting order, flanked by large joints of roast and boiled, a tongue,a pigeon pie, a cold fowl, a tankard of ale, and other little mattersof the like kind, which, in degenerate towns and cities, aregenerally understood to belong more particularly to solid lunches,stage-coach dinners, or unusually substantial breakfasts.

　　Mr John Browdie, with his hands in his pockets, hoveredrestlessly about these delicacies, stopping occasionally to whiskthe flies out of the sugar-basin with his wife’s pocket-handkerchief, or to dip a teaspoon in the milk-pot and carry it tohis mouth, or to cut off a little knob of crust, and a little corner ofmeat, and swallow them at two gulps like a couple of pills. Afterevery one of these flirtations with the eatables, he pulled out hiswatch, and declared with an earnestness quite pathetic that hecouldn’t undertake to hold out two minutes longer.

　　 ‘Tilly!’ said John to his lady, who was reclining half awake andhalf asleep upon a sofa.

　　‘Well, John!’

　　‘Well, John!’ retorted her husband, impatiently. ‘Dost thou feelhoongry, lass?’

　　‘Not very,’ said Mrs Browdie.

　　‘Not vary!’ repeated John, raising his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Hearher say not vary, and us dining at three, and loonching off pasthrythot aggravates a mon ’stead of pacifying him! Not vary!’

　　‘Here’s a gen’l’man for you, sir,’ said the waiter, looking in.

　　‘A wa’at for me?’ cried John, as though he thought it must be aletter, or a parcel.

　　‘A gen’l’man, sir.’

　　‘Stars and garthers, chap!’ said John, ‘wa’at dost thou coom andsay thot for? In wi’ ’un.’

　　‘Are you at home, sir?’

　　‘At whoam!’ cried John, ‘I wish I wur; I’d ha tea’d two hour ago.

　　Why, I told t’oother chap to look sharp ootside door, and tell ’und’rectly he coom, thot we war faint wi’ hoonger. In wi’ ’un. Aha!

　　Thee hond, Misther Nickleby. This is nigh to be the proodest dayo’ my life, sir. Hoo be all wi’ ye? Ding! But, I’m glod o’ this!’

　　Quite forgetting even his hunger in the heartiness of hissalutation, John Browdie shook Nicholas by the hand again andagain, slapping his palm with great violence between each shake,to add warmth to the reception.

　　‘Ah! there she be,’ said John, observing the look which Nicholasdirected towards his wife. ‘There she be—we shan’t quarrel abouther noo—eh? Ecod, when I think o’ thot—but thou want’st soom’atto eat. Fall to, mun, fall to, and for wa’at we’re aboot to receive—’

　　 No doubt the grace was properly finished, but nothing morewas heard, for John had already begun to play such a knife andfork, that his speech was, for the time, gone.

　　‘I shall take the usual licence, Mr Browdie,’ said Nicholas, as heplaced a chair for the bride.

　　‘Tak’ whatever thou like’st,’ said John, ‘and when a’s gane, ca’

　　for more.’

　　Without stopping to explain, Nicholas kissed the blushing MrsBrowdie, and handed her to her seat.

　　‘I say,’ said John, rather astounded for the moment, ‘mak’

　　theeself quite at whoam, will ’ee?’

　　‘You may depend upon that,’ replied Nicholas; ‘on onecondition.’

　　‘And wa’at may thot be?’ asked John.

　　‘That you make me a godfather the very first time you haveoccasion for one.’

　　‘Eh! d’ye hear thot?’ cried John, laying down his knife and fork.

　　‘A godfeyther! Ha! ha! ha! Tilly—hear till ’un—a godfeyther!

　　Divn’t say a word more, ye’ll never beat thot. Occasion for ’un—agodfeyther! Ha! ha! ha!’

　　Never was man so tickled with a respectable old joke, as JohnBrowdie was with this. He chuckled, roared, half suffocatedhimself by laughing large pieces of beef into his windpipe, roaredagain, persisted in eating at the same time, got red in the face andblack in the forehead, coughed, cried, got better, went off againlaughing inwardly, got worse, choked, had his back thumped,stamped about, frightened his wife, and at last recovered in a stateof the last exhaustion and with the water streaming from his eyes,but still faintly ejaculating, ‘A godfeyther—a godfeyther, Tilly!’ in a tone bespeaking an exquisite relish of the sally, which no sufferingcould diminish.

　　‘You remember the night of our first tea-drinking?’ saidNicholas.

　　‘Shall I e’er forget it, mun?’ replied John Browdie.

　　‘He was a desperate fellow that night though, was he not, MrsBrowdie?’ said Nicholas. ‘Quite a monster!’

　　‘If you had only heard him as we were going home, MrNickleby, you’d have said so indeed,’ returned the bride. ‘I neverwas so frightened in all my life.’

　　‘Coom, coom,’ said John, with a broad grin; ‘thou know’stbetther than thot, Tilly.’

　　‘So I was,’ replied Mrs Browdie. ‘I almost made up my mindnever to speak to you again.’

　　‘A’most!’ said John, with a broader grin than the last. ‘A’mostmade up her mind! And she wur coaxin’, and coaxin’, andwheedlin’, and wheedlin’ a’ the blessed wa’. “Wa’at didst thou letyon chap mak’ oop tiv’ee for?” says I. “I deedn’t, John,” says she, asqueedgin my arm. “You deedn’t?” says I. “Noa,” says she, asqueedgin of me agean.’

　　‘Lor, John!’ interposed his pretty wife, colouring very much.

　　‘How can you talk such nonsense? As if I should have dreamt ofsuch a thing!’

　　‘I dinnot know whether thou’d ever dreamt of it, though I thinkthat’s loike eneaf, mind,’ retorted John; ‘but thou didst it. “Ye’re afeeckle, changeable weathercock, lass,” says I. “Not feeckle, John,”

　　says she. “Yes,” says I, “feeckle, dom’d feeckle. Dinnot tell me thoubean’t, efther yon chap at schoolmeasther’s,” says I. “Him!” saysshe, quite screeching. “Ah! him!” says I. “Why, John,” says she— and she coom a deal closer and squeedged a deal harder thanshe’d deane afore—“dost thou think it’s nat’ral noo, that havingsuch a proper mun as thou to keep company wi’, I’d ever tak’ oppwi’ such a leetle scanty whipper-snapper as yon?” she says. Ha!

　　ha! ha! She said whipper-snapper! “Ecod!” I says, “efther thot,neame the day, and let’s have it ower!” Ha! ha! ha!’

　　Nicholas laughed very heartily at this story, both on account ofits telling against himself, and his being desirous to spare theblushes of Mrs Browdie, whose protestations were drowned inpeals of laughter from her husband. His good-nature soon put herat her ease; and although she still denied the charge, she laughedso heartily at it, that Nicholas had the satisfaction of feelingassured that in all essential respects it was strictly true.

　　‘This is the second time,’ said Nicholas, ‘that we have evertaken a meal together, and only third I have ever seen you; and yetit really seems to me as if I were among old friends.’

　　‘Weel!’ observed the Yorkshireman, ‘so I say.’

　　‘And I am sure I do,’ added his young wife.

　　‘I have the best reason to be impressed with the feeling, mind,’

　　said Nicholas; ‘for if it had not been for your kindness of heart, mygood friend, when I had no right or reason to expect it, I know notwhat might have become of me or what plight I should have beenin by this time.’

　　‘Talk aboot soom’at else,’ replied John, gruffly, ‘and dinnotbother.’

　　‘It must be a new song to the same tune then,’ said Nicholas,smiling. ‘I told you in my letter that I deeply felt and admired yoursympathy with that poor lad, whom you released at the risk ofinvolving yourself in trouble and difficulty; but I can never tell you how greateful he and I, and others whom you don’t know, are toyou for taking pity on him.’

　　‘Ecod!’ rejoined John Browdie, drawing up his chair; ‘and I cannever tell you hoo gratful soom folks that we do know would beloikewise, if they know’d I had takken pity on him.’

　　‘Ah!’ exclaimed Mrs Browdie, ‘what a state I was in that night!’

　　‘Were they at all disposed to give you credit for assisting in theescape?’ inquired Nicholas of John Browdie.

　　‘Not a bit,’ replied the Yorkshireman, extending his mouth fromear to ear. ‘There I lay, snoog in schoolmeasther’s bed long eftherit was dark, and nobody coom nigh the pleace. “Weel!” thinks I,“he’s got a pretty good start, and if he bean’t whoam by noo, henever will be; so you may coom as quick as you loike, and foind usreddy”—that is, you know, schoolmeasther might coom.’

　　‘I understand,’ said Nicholas.

　　‘Presently,’ resumed John, ‘he did coom. I heerd door shutdoonstairs, and him a warking, oop in the daark. “Slow andsteddy,’ I says to myself, “tak’ your time, sir—no hurry.” He coomsto the door, turns the key—turns the key when there warn’tnothing to hoold the lock—and ca’s oot ‘Hallo, there!”—“Yes,”

　　thinks I, “you may do thot agean, and not wakken anybody, sir.”

　　“Hallo, there,” he says, and then he stops. “Thou’d betther notaggravate me,” says schoolmeasther, efther a little time. “I’ll brak’

　　every boan in your boddy, Smike,” he says, efther another littletime. Then all of a soodden, he sings oot for a loight, and when itcooms—ecod, such a hoorly-boorly! “Wa’at’s the matter?” says I.

　　“He’s gane,” says he,—stark mad wi’ vengeance. “Have you heerdnought?” “Ees,” says I, “I heerd street-door shut, no time at a’ ago.

　　I heerd a person run doon there” (pointing t’other wa’—eh?) “Help!” he cries. “I’ll help you,” says I; and off we set—the wrongwa’! Ho! ho! ho!’

　　‘Did you go far?’ asked Nicholas.

　　‘Far!’ replied John; ‘I run him clean off his legs in quarther ofan hoor. To see old schoolmeasther wi’out his hat, skimming alongoop to his knees in mud and wather, tumbling over fences, androwling into ditches, and bawling oot like mad, wi’ his one eyelooking sharp out for the lad, and his coat-tails flying out behind,and him spattered wi’ mud all ower, face and all! I tho’t I shouldha’ dropped doon, and killed myself wi’ laughing.’

　　John laughed so heartily at the mere recollection, that hecommunicated the contagion to both his hearers, and all threeburst into peals of laughter, which were renewed again and again,until they could laugh no longer.

　　‘He’s a bad ’un,’ said John, wiping his eyes; ‘a very bad ’un, isschoolmeasther.’

　　‘I can’t bear the sight of him, John,’ said his wife.

　　‘Coom,’ retorted John, ‘thot’s tidy in you, thot is. If it wa’ntalong o’ you, we shouldn’t know nought aboot ’un. Thou know’d’un first, Tilly, didn’t thou?’

　　‘I couldn’t help knowing Fanny Squeers, John,’ returned hiswife; ‘she was an old playmate of mine, you know.’

　　‘Weel,’ replied John, ‘dean’t I say so, lass? It’s best to beneighbourly, and keep up old acquaintance loike; and what I sayis, dean’t quarrel if ’ee can help it. Dinnot think so, Mr Nickleby?’

　　‘Certainly,’ returned Nicholas; ‘and you acted upon thatprinciple when I meet you on horseback on the road, after ourmemorable evening.’

　　‘Sure-ly,’ said John. ‘Wa’at I say, I stick by.’

　　 ‘And that’s a fine thing to do, and manly too,’ said Nicholas,‘though it’s not exactly what we understand by “coming Yorkshireover us” in London. Miss Squeers is stopping with you, you said inyour note.’

　　‘Yes,’ replied John, ‘Tilly’s bridesmaid; and a queer bridesmaidshe be, too. She wean’t be a bride in a hurry, I reckon.’

　　‘For shame, John,’ said Mrs Browdie; with an acute perceptionof the joke though, being a bride herself.

　　‘The groom will be a blessed mun,’ said John, his eyes twinklingat the idea. ‘He’ll be in luck, he will.’

　　‘You see, Mr Nickleby,’ said his wife, ‘that it was inconsequence of her being here, that John wrote to you and fixedtonight, because we thought that it wouldn’t be pleasant for you tomeet, after what has passed.’

　　‘Unquestionably. You were quite right in that,’ said Nicholas,interrupting.

　　‘Especially,’ observed Mrs Browdie, looking very sly, ‘after whatwe know about past and gone love matters.’

　　‘We know, indeed!’ said Nicholas, shaking his head. ‘Youbehaved rather wickedly there, I suspect.’

　　‘O’ course she did,’ said John Browdie, passing his hugeforefinger through one of his wife’s pretty ringlets, and lookingvery proud of her. ‘She wur always as skittish and full o’ tricks asa—’

　　‘Well, as a what?’ said his wife.

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