The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, v. 1 (of 2)

by Charles Dickens

  CHAPTER XX

  _Showing how Dodson and Fogg were Men of Business, and their Clerks Men of Pleasure; and how an affecting Interview took place between Mr. Weller and his Long-lost Parent; showing also what Choice Spirits assembled at the Magpie and Stump, and what a Capital Chapter the Next One will be_

  In the ground-floor front of a dingy house, at the very farthest endof Freeman's Court, Cornhill, sat the four clerks of Messrs. Dodsonand Fogg, two of his Majesty's Attorneys of the Courts of King's Benchand Common Pleas at Westminster, and solicitors of the High Court ofChancery; the aforesaid clerks catching as favourable glimpses ofHeaven's light and Heaven's sun, in the course of their daily labours,as a man might hope to do, were he placed at the bottom of a reasonablydeep well; and without the opportunity of perceiving the stars in theday-time, which the latter secluded situation affords.

  The clerks' office of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg was a dark, mouldy,earthy-smelling room, with a high wainscoted partition to screen theclerks from the vulgar gaze: a couple of old wooden chairs: a veryloud-ticking clock: an almanack, an umbrella-stand, a row of hat-pegs,and a few shelves, on which were deposited several ticketed bundles ofdirty papers, some old deal boxes with paper labels, and sundry decayedstone ink bottles of various shapes and sizes. There was a glass doorleading into the passage which formed the entrance to the court, andon the outer side of this glass door, Mr. Pickwick, closely followedby Sam Weller, presented himself on the Friday morning succeeding theoccurrence, of which a faithful narration is given in the last chapter.

  "Come in, can't you!" cried a voice from behind the partition, in replyto Mr. Pickwick's gentle tap at the door. And Mr. Pickwick and Samentered accordingly.

  "Mr. Dodson or Mr. Fogg at home, sir?" inquired Mr. Pickwick, gently,advancing, hat in hand, towards the partition.

  "Mr. Dodson ain't at home, and Mr. Fogg's particularly engaged,"replied the voice; and at the same time the head to which the voicebelonged, with a pen behind its ear, looked over the partition, and atMr. Pickwick.

  It was a ragged head, the sandy hair of which, scrupulously parted onone side, and flattened down with pomatum, was twisted into littlesemi-circular tails round a flat face ornamented with a pair of smalleyes, and garnished with a very dirty shirt collar and a rusty blackstock.

  "Mr. Dodson ain't at home, and Mr. Fogg's particularly engaged," saidthe man to whom the head belonged.

  "When will Mr. Dodson be back, sir?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.

  "Can't say."

  "Will it be long before Mr. Fogg is disengaged, sir?"

  "Don't know."

  Here the man proceeded to mend his pen with great deliberation, whileanother clerk, who was mixing a Seidlitz powder, under cover of the lidof his desk, laughed approvingly.

  "I think I'll wait," said Mr. Pickwick. There was no reply; so Mr.Pickwick sat down unbidden, and listened to the loud ticking of theclock and the murmured conversation of the clerks.

  "That was a game, wasn't it?" said one of the gentlemen in a brown coatand brass buttons, inky drabs, and bluchers, at the conclusion of someinaudible relation of his previous evening's adventures.

  "Devilish good--devilish good," said the Seidlitz-powder man.

  "Tom Cummins was in the chair," said the man with the brown coat."It was half-past four when I got to Somers Town, and then I was souncommon lushy, that I couldn't find the place where the latch-key wentin, and was obliged to knock up the old 'ooman. I say, I wonder whatold Fogg 'ud say, if he knew it. I should get the sack, I s'pose--eh?"

  At this humorous notion, all the clerks laughed in concert.

  "There was such a game with Fogg here, this mornin'," said the man inthe brown coat, "while Jack was up-stairs sorting the papers, and youtwo were gone to the stamp-office. Fogg was down here, opening theletters, when that chap as we issued the writ against at Camberwell,you know, came in--what's his name again?"

  "Ramsey," said the clerk who had spoken to Mr. Pickwick.

  "Ah, Ramsey--a precious seedy-looking customer. 'Well, sir,' saysold Fogg, looking at him very fierce--you know his way--'well, sir,have you come to settle?' 'Yes, I have, sir,' said Ramsey, puttinghis hand in his pocket, and bringing out the money, 'the debt's twopound ten, and the costs three pound five, and here it is, sir;' andhe sighed like bricks, as he lugged out the money, done up in a bitof blotting-paper. Old Fogg looked first at the money, and then athim, and then he coughed in his rum way, so that I knew something wascoming. 'You don't know there's a declaration filed, which increasesthe costs materially, I suppose?' said Fogg. 'You don't say that, sir,'said Ramsey, starting back; 'the time was only out last night, sir.' 'Ido say it, though,' said Fogg, 'my clerk's just gone to file it. Hasn'tMr. Jackson gone to file that declaration in Bullman and Ramsey, Mr.Wicks?' Of course I said yes, and then Fogg coughed again, and lookedat Ramsey. 'My God!' said Ramsey; 'and here have I nearly driven myselfmad, scraping this money together, and all to no purpose.' 'None atall,' said Fogg, coolly; 'so you had better go back and scrape somemore together, and bring it here in time.' 'I can't get it, by God!'said Ramsey, striking the desk with his fist. 'Don't bully me, sir,'said Fogg, getting into a passion on purpose. 'I am not bullying you,sir,' said Ramsey. 'You are,' said Fogg; 'get out, sir; get out of thisoffice, sir, and come back, sir, when you know how to behave yourself.'Well, Ramsey tried to speak, but Fogg wouldn't let him, so he put themoney in his pocket, and sneaked out. The door was scarcely shut, whenold Fogg turned round to me, with a sweet smile on his face, and drewthe declaration out of his coat pocket. 'Here, Wicks,' says Fogg, 'takea cab, and go down to the Temple as quick as you can, and file that.The costs are quite safe, for he's a steady man with a large family,at a salary of five-and-twenty shillings a week, and if he gives us awarrant of attorney, as he must in the end, I know his employers willsee it paid; so we may as well get all we can out of him, Mr. Wicks;it's a Christian act to do it, Mr. Wicks, for with his large familyand small income, he'll be all the better for a good lesson againstgetting into debt,--won't he, Mr. Wicks, won't he?'--and he smiled sogood-naturedly as he went away, that it was delightful to see him. Heis a capital man of business," said Wicks, in a tone of the deepestadmiration, "capital, isn't he?"

  The other three cordially subscribed to this opinion, and the anecdoteafforded the most unlimited satisfaction.

  "Nice men these here, sir," whispered Mr. Weller to his master; "werynice notion of fun they has, sir."

  Mr. Pickwick nodded assent, and coughed to attract the attention of theyoung gentlemen behind the partition, who, having now relaxed theirminds by a little conversation among themselves, condescended to takesome notice of the stranger.

  "I wonder whether Fogg's disengaged now?" said Jackson.

  "I'll see," said Wicks, dismounting leisurely from his stool. "Whatname shall I tell Mr. Fogg?"

  "Pickwick," replied the illustrious subject of these memoirs.

  Mr. Jackson departed up-stairs on his errand, and immediately returnedwith a message that Mr. Fogg would see Mr. Pickwick in five minutes;and having delivered it, returned again to his desk.

  "What did he say his name was?" whispered Wicks.

  "Pickwick," replied Jackson; "it's the defendant in Bardell andPickwick."

  A sudden scraping of feet, mingled with the sound of suppressedlaughter, was heard from behind the partition.

  "They're a twiggin' of you, sir," whispered Mr. Weller.

  "Twigging of me, Sam!" replied Mr. Pickwick; "what do you mean bytwigging me?"

  Mr. Weller replied by pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, andMr. Pickwick, on looking up, became sensible of the pleasing fact,that all the four clerks, with countenances expressive of the utmostamusement, and with their heads thrust over the wooden screen, wereminutely inspecting the figure and general appearance of the supposedtrifler with female hearts, and disturber of female happiness. On hislooking up, the row of heads suddenly disappeared, and the sound ofpens travelling at a furious rate over paper, immediately s
ucceeded.

  A sudden ring at the bell which hung in the office, summoned Mr.Jackson to the apartment of Fogg, from whence he came back to say thathe (Fogg) was ready to see Mr. Pickwick if he would step up-stairs.

  Up-stairs Mr. Pickwick did step accordingly, leaving Sam Wellerbelow. The room door of the one-pair back, bore inscribed in legiblecharacters the imposing words "Mr. Fogg;" and, having tapped thereat,and been desired to come in, Jackson ushered Mr. Pickwick into thepresence.

  "Is Mr. Dodson in?" inquired Mr. Fogg.

  "Just come in, sir," replied Jackson.

  "Ask him to step here."

  "Yes, sir." Exit Jackson.

  "Take a seat, sir," said Fogg; "there is the paper, sir; my partnerwill be here directly, and we can converse about this matter, sir."

  Mr. Pickwick took a seat and the paper, but, instead of reading thelatter, peeped over the top of it, and took a survey of the man ofbusiness, who was an elderly, pimply-faced, vegetable-diet sort of man,in a black coat, dark mixture trousers, and small black gaiters: a kindof being who seemed to be an essential part of the desk at which hewas writing, and to have as much thought or sentiment.

  After a few minutes' silence, Mr. Dodson, a plump, portly,stern-looking man, with a loud voice, appeared; and the conversationcommenced.

  "This is Mr. Pickwick," said Fogg.

  "Ah! You are the defendant, sir, in Bardell and Pickwick?" said Dodson.

  "I am, sir," replied Mr. Pickwick.

  "Well, sir," said Dodson, "and what do you propose?"

  "Ah!" said Fogg, thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets andthrowing himself back in his chair, "what do you propose, Mr. Pickwick?"

  "Hush, Fogg," said Dodson, "let me hear what Mr. Pickwick has to say."

  "I came, gentlemen," said Mr. Pickwick, gazing placidly on the twopartners, "I came here, gentlemen, to express the surprise with which Ireceived your letter of the other day, and to inquire what grounds ofaction you can have against me."

  "Grounds of--" Fogg had ejaculated thus much, when he was stopped byDodson.

  "Mr. Fogg," said Dodson, "I am going to speak."

  "I beg your pardon, Mr. Dodson," said Fogg.

  "For the grounds of action, sir," continued Dodson, with moralelevation in his air, "you will consult your own conscience and yourown feelings. We, sir, we, are guided entirely by the statement of ourclient. That statement, sir, may be true, or it may be false; it maybe credible, or it may be incredible; but, if it be true, and if it becredible, I do not hesitate to say, sir, that our grounds of action,sir, are strong, and not to be shaken. You may be an unfortunate man,sir, or you may be a designing one; but if I were called upon, as ajuryman upon my oath, sir, to express my opinion of your conduct, sir,I do not hesitate to assert that I should have but one opinion aboutit." Here Dodson drew himself up, with an air of offended virtue, andlooked at Fogg, who thrust his hands further in his pockets, and,nodding his head sagely, said, in a tone of the fullest concurrence,"Most certainly."

  "Well, sir," said Mr. Pickwick, with considerable pain depicted inhis countenance, "you will permit me to assure you, that I am a mostunfortunate man, so far as this case is concerned."

  "I hope you are, sir," replied Dodson; "I trust you may be, sir. Ifyou are really innocent of what is laid to your charge, you are moreunfortunate than I had believed any man could possibly be. What do_you_ say, Mr. Fogg?"

  "I say precisely what you say," replied Fogg, with a smile ofincredulity.

  "The writ, sir, which commences the action," continued Dodson, "wasissued regularly. Mr. Fogg, where is the _pr?cipe_ book?"

  "Here it is," said Fogg, handing over a square book, with a parchmentcover.

  "Here is the entry," resumed Dodson. "'Middlesex, Capias _MarthaBardell, widow, v. Samuel Pickwick_. Damages, ?1500. Dodson and Foggfor the plaintiff, Aug. 28, 1830.' All regular, sir; perfectly." Dodsoncoughed and looked at Fogg, who said "Perfectly," also. And then theyboth looked at Mr. Pickwick.

  "I am to understand, then," said Mr. Pickwick, "that it really is yourintention to proceed with this action?"

  "Understand, sir? That you certainly may," replied Dodson, withsomething as near a smile as his importance would allow.

  "And that the damages are actually laid at fifteen hundred pounds?"said Mr. Pickwick.

  "To which understanding you may add my assurance, that if we could haveprevailed upon our client, they would have been laid at treble theamount, sir," replied Dodson.

  "I believe Mrs. Bardell specially said, however," observed Fogg,glancing at Dodson, "that she would not compromise for a farthing less."

  "Unquestionably," replied Dodson, sternly. "For the action was onlyjust begun; and it wouldn't have done to let Mr. Pickwick compromise itthen, even if he had been so disposed."

  "As you offer no terms, sir," said Dodson, displaying a slip ofparchment in his right hand, and affectionately pressing a paper copyof it on Mr. Pickwick with his left, "I had better serve you with acopy of this writ, sir. Here is the original, sir."

  "Very well, gentlemen, very well," said Mr. Pickwick, rising inperson and wrath at the same time; "you shall hear from my solicitor,gentlemen."

  "We shall be very happy to do so," said Fogg, rubbing his hands.

  "Very," said Dodson, opening the door.

  "And before I go, gentlemen," said the excited Mr. Pickwick, turninground on the landing, "permit me to say, that of all the disgracefuland rascally proceedings----"

  "Stay, sir, stay," interposed Dodson, with great politeness. "Mr.Jackson! Mr. Wicks!"

  "Sir," said the two clerks, appearing at the bottom of the stairs.

  "I merely want you to hear what this gentleman says," replied Dodson."Pray go on, sir--disgraceful and rascally proceedings, I think yousaid?"

  "I did," said Mr. Pickwick, thoroughly roused. "I said, sir, that ofall the disgraceful and rascally proceedings that ever were attempted,this is the most so. I repeat it, sir."

  "You hear that, Mr. Wicks?" said Dodson.

  "You won't forget these expressions, Mr. Jackson?" said Fogg.

  "Perhaps you would like to call us swindlers, sir," said Dodson.

  "Pray do, sir, if you feel disposed; now pray do, sir."

  "I do," said Mr. Pickwick. "You _are_ swindlers."

  "Very good," said Dodson. "You can hear down there, I hope, Mr. Wicks?"

  "Oh yes, sir," said Wicks.

  "You had better come up a step or two higher, if you can't," added Mr.Fogg. "Go on, sir; do go on. You had better call us thieves, sir; orperhaps you would like to assault one of us. Pray do it, sir, if youwould; we will not make the smallest resistance. Pray do it, sir."

  As Fogg put himself very temptingly within the reach of Mr. Pickwick'sclenched fist, there is little doubt that that gentleman would havecomplied with his earnest entreaty, but for the interposition of Sam,who, hearing the dispute, emerged from the office, mounted the stairs,and seized his master by the arm.

  "You just come avay," said Mr. Weller. "Battledore and shuttlecock'sa wery good game, ven you an't the shuttlecock and two lawyers thebattledores, in which case it gets too excitin' to be pleasant. Comeaway, sir. If you want to ease your mind by blowing up somebody, comeout into the court and blow up me; but it's rayther too expensive workto be carried on here."

  And without the slightest ceremony, Mr. Weller hauled his master downthe stairs, and down the court, and having safely deposited him inCornhill, fell behind, prepared to follow whither-soever he should lead.

  Mr. Pickwick walked on abstractedly, crossed opposite the MansionHouse, and bent his steps up Cheapside. Sam began to wonder where theywere going, when his master turned round, and said:

  "Sam, I will go immediately to Mr. Perker's."

  "That's just exactly the wery place vere you ought to have gone lastnight, sir," replied Mr. Weller.

  "I think it is, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick.

  "I _know_ it is," said Mr. Weller.

  "Well, well, Sam," replied Mr. Pickwick,
"we will go there at once, butfirst, as I have been rather ruffled, I should like a glass of brandyand water warm, Sam. Where can I have it, Sam?"

  Mr. Weller's knowledge of London was extensive and peculiar. He repliedwithout the slightest consideration:

  "Second court on the right-hand side--last house but vun on the sameside the vay--take the box as stands in the first fireplace, 'cos therean't no leg in the middle o' the table, wich all the others has, andits wery inconwenient."

  Mr. Pickwick observed his valet's directions implicitly, and biddingSam follow him, entered the tavern he had pointed out, where the hotbrandy and water was speedily placed before him; while Mr. Weller,seated at a respectful distance, though at the same table with hismaster, was accommodated with a pint of porter.

  The room was one of a very homely description, and was apparentlyunder the especial patronage of stage coachmen: for several gentlemen,who had all the appearance of belonging to that learned profession,were drinking and smoking in the different boxes. Among the number wasone stout, red-faced, elderly man in particular, seated in an oppositebox, who attracted Mr. Pickwick's attention. The stout man was smokingwith great vehemence, but between every half-dozen puffs, he took hispipe from his mouth, and looked first at Mr. Weller and then at Mr.Pickwick. Then, he would bury in a quart pot as much of his countenanceas the dimensions of the quart pot admitted of its receiving, andtake another look at Sam and Mr. Pickwick. Then he would take anotherhalf-dozen puffs with an air of profound meditation and look at themagain. At last the stout man, putting up his legs on the seat, andleaning his back against the wall, began to puff at his pipe withoutleaving off at all, and to stare through the smoke at the new-comers,as if he had made up his mind to see the most he could of them.

  At first the evolutions of the stout man had escaped Mr. Weller'sobservation, but by degrees, as he saw Mr. Pickwick's eyes every nowand then turning towards him, he began to gaze in the same direction,at the same time shading his eyes with his hand, as if he partiallyrecognised the object before him, and wished to make quite sure of itsidentity. His doubts were speedily dispelled, however; for the stoutman having blown a thick cloud from his pipe, a hoarse voice, like somestrange effort of ventriloquism, emerged from beneath the capaciousshawls which muffled his throat and chest, and slowly uttered thesesounds--"Wy, Sammy!"

  "Who's that, Sam?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.

  "Why, I wouldn't ha' believed it, sir," replied Mr. Weller withastonished eyes. "It's the old 'un."

  "Old one," said Mr. Pickwick. "What old one?"

  "My father, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "How are you, my ancient?" Withwhich beautiful ebullition of filial affection, Mr. Weller made room onthe seat beside him, for the stout man, who advanced pipe in mouth andpot in hand, to greet him.

  "Wy, Sammy," said the father, "I ha'n't seen you, for two years andbetter."

  "Nor more you have, old codger," replied the son. "How's mother-in-law?"

  "Wy, I'll tell you what, Sammy," said Mr. Weller senior, with muchsolemnity in his manner; "there never was a nicer woman as a widder,than that 'ere second wentur o' mine--a sweet creetur she was, Sammy;all I can say on her now, is, that as she was such an uncommon pleasantwidder, it's a great pity she ever changed her con-dition. She don'tact as a vife, Sammy."

  "Don't she though?" inquired Mr. Weller junior.

  The elder Mr. Weller shook his head, as he replied with a sigh, "I'vedone it once too often, Sammy; I've done it once too often. Takeexample by your father, my boy, and be wery careful o' widders allyour life, specially if they've kept a public-house, Sammy." Havingdelivered this parental advice with great pathos, Mr. Weller seniorre-filled his pipe from a tin box he carried in his pocket, and,lighting his fresh pipe from the ashes of the old one, commencedsmoking at a great rate.

  "Beg your pardon, sir," he said, renewing the subject, and addressingMr. Pickwick, after a considerable pause, "nothin' personal, I hope,sir; I hope you ha'n't got a widder, sir."

  "Not I," replied Mr. Pickwick, laughing; and while Mr. Pickwicklaughed, Sam Weller informed his parent in a whisper, of the relationin which he stood towards that gentleman.

  "Beg your pardon, sir," said Mr. Weller senior, taking off his hat, "Ihope you've no fault to find vith Sammy, sir?"

  "None whatever," said Mr. Pickwick.

  "Wery glad to hear it, sir," replied the old man; "I took a good dealo' pains with his eddication, sir; let him run in the streets when hewas wery young, and shift for his-self. It's the only way to make a boysharp, sir."

  "Rather a dangerous process, I should imagine," said Mr. Pickwick, witha smile.

  "And not a very sure one, either," added Mr. Weller; "I got reg'larlydone the other day."

  "No!" said his father.

  "_Take example of your father, my boy, and be werycareful o' widders all your life._"]

  "I did," said the son; and he proceeded to relate, in as few wordsas possible, how he had fallen a ready dupe to the stratagems of JobTrotter.

  Mr. Weller senior listened to the tale with the most profoundattention, and at its termination said:

  "Worn't one of these chaps slim and tall, with long hair, and the gifto' the gab wery gallopin'?"

  Mr. Pickwick did not quite understand the last item of description,but, comprehending the first, said "Yes" at a venture.

  "T'other's a black-haired chap in mulberry livery, with a wery largehead?"

  "Yes, yes, he is," said Mr. Pickwick and Sam, with great earnestness.

  "Then I know where they are, and that's all about it," said Mr. Weller;"they're at Ipswich, safe enough, them two."

  "No!" said Mr. Pickwick.

  "Fact," said Mr. Weller, "and I'll tell you how I know it. I work anIpswich coach now and then for a friend o' mine. I worked down thewery day arter the night as you caught the rheumatiz, and at the BlackBoy at Chelmsford--the very place they'd come to--I took 'em up, rightthrough to Ipswich, where the man servant--him in the mulberries--toldme they was a goin' to put up for a long time."

  "I'll follow him," said Mr. Pickwick; "we may as well see Ipswich asany other place. I'll follow him."

  "You're quite certain it was them, governor?" inquired Mr. Wellerjunior.

  "Quite, Sammy, quite," replied his father, "for their appearance iswery sing'ler; besides that 'ere, I wondered to see the gen'l'm'n sofamiliar with his servant; and, more than that, as they sat in front,right behind the box, I heerd 'em laughing, and saying how they'd doneold Fireworks."

  "Old who?" said Mr. Pickwick.

  "Old Fireworks, sir; by which, I've no doubt, they meant you, sir."

  There is nothing positively vile or atrocious in the appellation of"old Fireworks," but still it is by no means a respectful or flatteringdesignation. The recollection of all the wrongs he had sustained atJingle's hands had crowded on Mr. Pickwick's mind, the moment Mr.Weller began to speak: it wanted but a feather to turn the scale, and"old Fireworks" did it.

  "I'll follow him," said Mr. Pickwick, with an emphatic blow on thetable.

  "I shall work down to Ipswich the day arter to-morrow, sir," said Mr.Weller the elder, "from the Bull in Whitechapel; and if you really meanto go, you'd better go with me."

  "So we had," said Mr. Pickwick; "very true; I can write to Bury, andtell them to meet me at Ipswich. We will go with you. But don't hurryaway, Mr. Weller; won't you take anything?"

  "You're wery good, sir," replied Mr. Weller, stopping short; "perhaps asmall glass of brandy to drink your health, and success to Sammy, sir,wouldn't be amiss."

  "Certainly not," replied Mr. Pickwick. "A glass of brandy here!" Thebrandy was brought: and Mr. Weller, after pulling his hair to Mr.Pickwick, and nodding to Sam, jerked it down his capacious throat as ifit had been a small thimbleful.

  "Well done, father!" said Sam; "take care, old fellow, or you'll have atouch of your old complaint, the gout."

  "I've found a sov'rin cure for that, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, settingdown the glass.

  "A sovereign cure for the gout,
" said Mr. Pickwick, hastily producinghis note-book--"what is it?"

  "The gout, sir," replied Mr. Weller, "the gout is a complaint as arisesfrom too much ease and comfort. If ever you're attacked with the gout,sir, jist you marry a widder as has got a good loud woice, with adecent notion of usin' it, and you'll never have the gout again. It'sa capital prescription, sir. I takes it reg'lar, and I can warrant itto drive away any illness as is caused by too much jollity." Havingimparted this valuable secret, Mr. Weller drained his glass once more,produced a laboured wink, sighed deeply, and slowly retired.

  "Well, what do you think of what your father says, Sam?" inquired Mr.Pickwick, with a smile.

  "Think, sir!" replied Mr. Weller; "why, I think he's the wictim o'connubiality, as Blue Beard's domestic chaplain said, with a tear ofpity, ven he buried him."

  There was no replying to this very apposite conclusion, and, therefore,Mr. Pickwick, after settling the reckoning, resumed his walk to Gray'sInn. By the time he reached its secluded groves, however, eight o'clockhad struck, and the unbroken stream of gentlemen in muddy high-lows,soiled white hats, and rusty apparel, who were pouring towards thedifferent avenues of egress, warned him that the majority of theoffices had closed for that day.

  After climbing two pairs of steep and dirty stairs, he found hisanticipations were realised. Mr. Perker's "outer door" was closed; andthe dead silence which followed Mr. Weller's repeated kicks thereat,announced that the officials had retired from business for the night.

  "This is pleasant, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick; "I shouldn't lose an hourin seeing him; I shall not be able to get one wink of sleep to-night, Iknow, unless I have the satisfaction of reflecting that I have confidedthis matter to a professional man."

  "Here's an old 'ooman comin' up-stairs, sir," replied Mr. Weller;"p'raps she knows where we can find somebody. Hallo, old lady, vere'sMr. Perker's people?"

  "Mr. Perker's people," said a thin, miserable-looking old woman,stopping to recover breath after the ascent of the staircase, "Mr.Perker's people's gone, and I'm a goin' to do the office out."

  "Are you Mr. Perker's servant?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.

  "I am Mr. Perker's laundress," replied the old woman.

  "Ah," said Mr. Pickwick, half aside to Sam, "it's a curiouscircumstance, Sam, that they call the old women in these inns,laundresses. I wonder what that's for?"

  "'Cos they has a mortal awersion to washing anythin', I suppose, sir,"replied Mr. Weller.

  "I shouldn't wonder," said Mr. Pickwick, looking at the old woman,whose appearance, as well as the condition of the office, which she hadby this time opened, indicated a rooted antipathy to the applicationof soap and water; "do you know where I can find Mr. Perker, my goodwoman?"

  "No, I don't," replied the old woman, gruffly; "he's out o' town now."

  "That's unfortunate," said Mr. Pickwick; "where's his clerk? Do youknow?"

  "Yes, I know where he is, but he won't thank me for telling you,"replied the laundress.

  "I have very particular business with him," said Mr. Pickwick.

  "Won't it do in the morning?" said the woman.

  "Not so well," replied Mr. Pickwick.

  "Well," said the old woman, "if it was anything very particular, I wasto say where he was, so I suppose there's no harm in telling. If youjust go to the Magpie and Stump, and ask at the bar for Mr. Lowten,they'll show you in to him, and he's Mr. Perker's clerk."

  With this direction, and having been furthermore informed that thehostelry in question was situated in a court, happy in the doubleadvantage of being in the vicinity of Clare Market, and closelyapproximating to the back of New Inn, Mr. Pickwick and Sam descendedthe rickety staircase in safety, and issued forth in quest of theMagpie and Stump.

  This favoured tavern, sacred to the evening orgies of Mr. Lowtenand his companions, was what ordinary people would designate apublic-house. That the landlord was a man of a money-making turn,was sufficiently testified by the fact of a small bulkhead beneaththe tap-room window, in size and shape not unlike a sedan-chair,being underlet to a mender of shoes: and that he was a being of aphilanthropic mind, was evident from the protection he afforded to apie-man, who vended his delicacies without fear of interruption onthe very door-step. In the lower windows, which were decorated withcurtains of a saffron hue, dangled two or three printed cards, bearingreference to Devonshire cider and Dantzig spruce, while a large blackboard, announcing in white letters to an enlightened public thatthere were 500,000 barrels of double stout in the cellars of theestablishment, left the mind in a state of not unpleasing doubt anduncertainty as to the precise direction in the bowels of the earth,in which this mighty cavern might be supposed to extend. When we add,that the weather-beaten signboard bore the half-obliterated semblanceof a magpie intently eyeing a crooked streak of brown paint, which theneighbours had been taught from infancy to consider as the "stump," wehave said all that need be said of the exterior of the edifice.

  On Mr. Pickwick's presenting himself at the bar, an elderly femaleemerged from behind a screen therein, and presented herself before him.

  "Is Mr. Lowten here, ma'am?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.

  "Yes, he is, sir," replied the landlady. "Here, Charley, show thegentleman in to Mr. Lowten."

  "The gen'lm'n can't go in just now," said a shambling pot-boy, with ared head, "'cos Mr. Lowten's a singin' a comic song, and he'll put himout. He'll be done d'rectly, sir."

  The red-headed pot-boy had scarcely finished speaking, when a mostunanimous hammering of tables, and jingling of glasses announced thatthe song had that instant terminated; and Mr. Pickwick, after desiringSam to solace himself in the tap, suffered himself to be conducted intothe presence of Mr. Lowten.

  At the announcement of "gentleman to speak to you, sir," a puffy-facedyoung man, who filled the chair at the head of the table, looked withsome surprise in the direction from whence the voice proceeded: and thesurprise seemed to be by no means diminished, when his eyes rested onan individual whom he had never seen before.

  "I beg your pardon, sir," said Mr. Pickwick, "and I am very sorryto disturb the other gentlemen, too, but I come on very particularbusiness; and if you will suffer me to detain you at this end of theroom for five minutes, I shall be very much obliged to you."

  The puffy-faced young man rose, and drawing a chair close to Mr.Pickwick in an obscure corner of the room, listened attentively to histale of woe.

  "Ah," he said, when Mr. Pickwick had concluded, "Dodson and Fogg--sharppractice theirs--capital men of business, Dodson and Fogg, sir."

  Mr. Pickwick admitted the sharp practice of Dodson and Fogg, and Lowtenresumed.

  "Perker ain't in town, and he won't be, neither, before the end of nextweek; but if you want the action defended, and will leave the copy withme, I can do all that's needful till he comes back."

  "That's exactly what I came here for," said Mr. Pickwick, handing overthe document. "If anything particular occurs, you can write to me atthe post-office, Ipswich."

  "That's all right," replied Mr. Perker's clerk; and then seeing Mr.Pickwick's eye wandering curiously towards the table, he added, "Willyou join us, for half an hour or so? We are capital company hereto-night. There's Samkin and Green's managing-clerk, and Smithers andPrice's chancery, and Pimkin and Thomas's out o' door--sings a capitalsong, he does--and Jack Bamber, and ever so many more. You're come outof the country, I suppose. Would you like to join us?"

  Mr. Pickwick could not resist so tempting an opportunity of studyinghuman nature. He suffered himself to be led to the table, where, afterhaving been introduced to the company in due form, he was accommodatedwith a seat near the chairman, and called for a glass of his favouritebeverage.

  A profound silence, quite contrary to Mr. Pickwick's expectation,succeeded.

  "You don't find this sort of thing disagreeable, I hope, sir?" said hisright-hand neighbour, a gentleman in a checked shirt, and Mosaic studs,with a cigar in his mouth.

  "Not in the least," replied Mr. Pickwick, "I like it very much
,although I am no smoker myself."

  "I should be very sorry to say I wasn't," interposed another gentlemanon the opposite side of the table. "It's board and lodging to me, issmoke."

  Mr. Pickwick glanced at the speaker, and thought that if it werewashing too, it would be all the better.

  Here there was another pause. Mr. Pickwick was a stranger, and hiscoming had evidently cast a damp upon the party.

  "Mr. Grundy's going to oblige the company with a song," said thechairman.

  "No he ain't," said Mr. Grundy.

  "Why not?" said the chairman.

  "Because he can't," said Mr. Grundy.

  "You had better say he won't," replied the chairman.

  "Well, then, he won't," retorted Mr. Grundy. Mr. Grundy's positiverefusal to gratify the company occasioned another silence.

  "Won't anybody enliven us?" said the chairman, despondingly.

  "Why don't you enliven us yourself, Mr. Chairman?" said a young manwith a whisker, a squint, and an open shirt-collar (dirty), from thebottom of the table.

  "Hear! hear!" said the smoking gentleman in the Mosaic jewellery.

  "Because I only know one song, and I have sung it already, and it'sa fine of 'glasses round' to sing the same song twice in a night,"replied the chairman.

  This was an unanswerable reply, and silence prevailed again.

  "I have been to-night, gentlemen," said Mr. Pickwick, hoping to start asubject which all the company could take a part in discussing, "I havebeen to-night in a place which you all know very well, doubtless, butwhich I have not been in before for some years, and know very littleof; I mean Gray's Inn, gentlemen. Curious little nooks in a greatplace, like London, these old Inns are."

  "By Jove," said the chairman, whispering across the table to Mr.Pickwick, "you have hit upon something that one of us, at least, wouldtalk upon for ever. You'll draw old Jack Bamber out; he was never heardto talk about anything else but the Inns, and he has lived alone inthem till he's half crazy."

  The individual to whom Lowten alluded was a little yellowhigh-shouldered man, whose countenance, from his habit of stoopingforward when silent, Mr. Pickwick had not observed before. He wonderedthough, when the old man raised his shrivelled face, and bent his greyeye upon him, with a keen inquiring look, that such remarkable featurescould have escaped his attention for a moment. There was a fixed grimsmile perpetually on his countenance; he leant his chin on a longskinny hand, with nails of extraordinary length; and as he inclinedhis head to one side, and looked keenly out from beneath his raggedgrey eyebrows, there was a strange, wild slyness in his leer, quiterepulsive to behold.

  This was the figure that now started forward, and burst into ananimated torrent of words. As this chapter has been a long one,however, and as the old man was a remarkable personage, it will be morerespectful to him, and more convenient to us, to let him speak forhimself in a fresh one.