prompt:
Chapter: Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer sat together in the little surgery
behind the shop, discussing minced veal and future prospects, when the
discourse, not unnaturally, turned upon the practice acquired by Bob the
aforesaid, and his present chances of deriving a competent independence
from the honourable profession to which he had devoted himself.

'Which, I think,' observed Mr. Bob Sawyer, pursuing the thread of the
subject--'which, I think, Ben, are rather dubious.'

'What's rather dubious?' inquired Mr. Ben Allen, at the same time
sharpening his intellect with a draught of beer. 'What's dubious?'

'Why, the chances,' responded Mr. Bob Sawyer.

'I forgot,' said Mr. Ben Allen. 'The beer has reminded me that I forgot,
Bob--yes; they _are _dubious.'

'It's wonderful how the poor people patronise me,' said Mr. Bob Sawyer
reflectively. 'They knock me up, at all hours of the night; they take
medicine to an extent which I should have conceived impossible; they put
on blisters and leeches with a perseverance worthy of a better cause;
they make additions to their families, in a manner which is quite awful.
Six of those last-named little promissory notes, all due on the same
day, Ben, and all intrusted to me!'

'It's very gratifying, isn't it?' said Mr. Ben Allen, holding his plate
for some more minced veal.

'Oh, very,' replied Bob; 'only not quite so much so as the confidence of
patients with a shilling or two to spare would be. This business was
capitally described in the advertisement, Ben. It is a practice, a very
extensive practice--and that's all.'

'Bob,' said Mr. Ben Allen, laying down his knife and fork, and fixing
his eyes on the visage of his friend, 'Bob, I'll tell you what it is.'

'What is it?' inquired Mr. Bob Sawyer.

'You must make yourself, with as little delay as possible, master of
Arabella's one thousand pounds.'

'Three per cent. consolidated bank annuities, now standing in her name
in the book or books of the governor and company of the Bank of
England,' added Bob Sawyer, in legal phraseology.

'Exactly so,' said Ben. 'She has it when she comes of age, or marries.
She wants a year of coming of age, and if you plucked up a spirit she
needn't want a month of being married.'

'She's a very charming and delightful creature,' quoth Mr. Robert
Sawyer, in reply; 'and has only one fault that I know of, Ben. It
happens, unfortunately, that that single blemish is a want of taste. She
don't like me.'

'It's my opinion that she don't know what she does like,' said Mr. Ben
Allen contemptuously.

'Perhaps not,' remarked Mr. Bob Sawyer. 'But it's my opinion that she
does know what she doesn't like, and that's of more importance.'

'I wish,' said Mr. Ben Allen, setting his teeth together, and speaking
more like a savage warrior who fed on raw wolf's flesh which he carved
with his fingers, than a peaceable young gentleman who ate minced veal
with a knife and fork--'I wish I knew whether any rascal really has been
tampering with her, and attempting to engage her affections. I think I
should assassinate him, Bob.'

'I'd put a bullet in him, if I found him out,' said Mr. Sawyer, stopping
in the course of a long draught of beer, and looking malignantly out of
the porter pot. 'If that didn't do his business, I'd extract it
afterwards, and kill him that way.'

Mr. Benjamin Allen gazed abstractedly on his friend for some minutes in
silence, and then said--

'You have never proposed to her, point-blank, Bob?'

'No. Because I saw it would be of no use,' replied Mr. Robert Sawyer.

'You shall do it, before you are twenty-four hours older,' retorted Ben,
with desperate calmness. 'She shall have you, or I'll know the reason
why. I'll exert my authority.'

'Well,' said Mr. Bob Sawyer, 'we shall see.'

'We shall see, my friend,' replied Mr. Ben Allen fiercely. He paused for
a few seconds, and added in a voice broken by emotion, 'You have loved
her from a child, my friend. You loved her when we were boys at school
together, and, even then, she was wayward and slighted your young
feelings. Do you recollect, with all the eagerness of a child's love,
one day pressing upon her acceptance, two small caraway-seed biscuits
and one sweet apple, neatly folded into a circular parcel with the leaf
of a copy-book?'

'I do,' replied Bob Sawyer.

'She slighted that, I think?' said Ben Allen.

'She did,' rejoined Bob. 'She said I had kept the parcel so long in the
pockets of my corduroys, that the apple was unpleasantly warm.'

'I remember,' said Mr. Allen gloomily. 'Upon which we ate it ourselves,
in alternate bites.'

Bob Sawyer intimated his recollection of the circumstance last alluded
to, by a melancholy frown; and the two friends remained for some time
absorbed, each in his own meditations.

While these observations were being exchanged between Mr. Bob Sawyer and
Mr. Benjamin Allen; and while the boy in the gray livery, marvelling at
the unwonted prolongation of the dinner, cast an anxious look, from time
to time, towards the glass door, distracted by inward misgivings
regarding the amount of minced veal which would be ultimately reserved
for his individual cravings; there rolled soberly on through the streets
of Bristol, a private fly, painted of a sad green colour, drawn by a
chubby sort of brown horse, and driven by a surly-looking man with his
legs dressed like the legs of a groom, and his body attired in the coat
of a coachman. Such appearances are common to many vehicles belonging
to, and maintained by, old ladies of economic habits; and in this
vehicle sat an old lady who was its mistress and proprietor.

'Martin!' said the old lady, calling to the surly man, out of the front
window.

'Well?' said the surly man, touching his hat to the old lady.

'Mr. Sawyer's,' said the old lady.

'I was going there,' said the surly man.

The old lady nodded the satisfaction which this proof of the surly man's
foresight imparted to her feelings; and the surly man giving a smart
lash to the chubby horse, they all repaired to Mr. Bob Sawyer's
together.

'Martin!' said the old lady, when the fly stopped at the door of Mr.
Robert Sawyer, late Nockemorf.

'Well?' said Martin.

'Ask the lad to step out, and mind the horse.'

'I'm going to mind the horse myself,' said Martin, laying his whip on
the roof of the fly.

'I can't permit it, on any account,' said the old lady; 'your testimony
will be very important, and I must take you into the house with me. You
must not stir from my side during the whole interview. Do you hear?'

'I hear,' replied Martin.

'Well; what are you stopping for?'

'Nothing,' replied Martin. So saying, the surly man leisurely descended
from the wheel, on which he had been poising himself on the tops of the
toes of his right foot, and having summoned the boy in the gray livery,
opened the coach door, flung down the steps, and thrusting in a hand
enveloped in a dark wash-leather glove, pulled out the old lady with as
much unconcern in his manner as if she were a bandbox.

'Dear me!' exclaimed the old lady. 'I am so flurried, now I have got
here, Martin, that I'm all in a tremble.'

Mr. Martin coughed behind the dark wash-leather gloves, but expressed no
sympathy; so the old lady, composing herself, trotted up Mr. Bob
Sawyer's steps, and Mr. Martin followed. Immediately on the old lady's
entering the shop, Mr. Benjamin Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been
putting the spirits-and-water out of sight, and upsetting nauseous drugs
to take off the smell of the tobacco smoke, issued hastily forth in a
transport of pleasure and affection.

'My dear aunt,' exclaimed Mr. Ben Allen, 'how kind of you to look in
upon us! Mr. Sawyer, aunt; my friend Mr. Bob Sawyer whom I have spoken
to you about, regarding--you know, aunt.' And here Mr. Ben Allen, who
was not at the moment extraordinarily sober, added the word 'Arabella,'
in what was meant to be a whisper, but which was an especially audible
and distinct tone of speech which nobody could avoid hearing, if anybody
were so disposed.

'My dear Benjamin,' said the old lady, struggling with a great shortness
of breath, and trembling from head to foot, 'don't be alarmed, my dear,
but I think I had better speak to Mr. Sawyer, alone, for a moment. Only
for one moment.'

'Bob,' said Mr. Allen, 'will you take my aunt into the surgery?'

'Certainly,' responded Bob, in a most professional voice. 'Step this
way, my dear ma'am. Don't be frightened, ma'am. We shall be able to set
you to rights in a very short time, I have no doubt, ma'am. Here, my
dear ma'am. Now then!' With this, Mr. Bob Sawyer having handed the old
lady to a chair, shut the door, drew another chair close to her, and
waited to hear detailed the symptoms of some disorder from which he saw
in perspective a long train of profits and advantages.

The first thing the old lady did, was to shake her head a great many
times, and began to cry.

'Nervous,' said Bob Sawyer complacently. 'Camphor-julep and water three
times a day, and composing draught at night.'

'I don't know how to begin, Mr. Sawyer,' said the old lady. 'It is so
very painful and distressing.'

'You need not begin, ma'am,' rejoined Mr. Bob Sawyer. 'I can anticipate
all you would say. The head is in fault.'

'I should be very sorry to think it was the heart,' said the old lady,
with a slight groan.

'Not the slightest danger of that, ma'am,' replied Bob Sawyer. 'The
stomach is the primary cause.'

'Mr. Sawyer!' exclaimed the old lady, starting.

'Not the least doubt of it, ma'am,' rejoined Bob, looking wondrous wise.
'Medicine, in time, my dear ma'am, would have prevented it all.'

'Mr. Sawyer,' said the old lady, more flurried than before, 'this
conduct is either great impertinence to one in my situation, Sir, or it
arises from your not understanding the object of my visit. If it had
been in the power of medicine, or any foresight I could have used, to
prevent what has occurred, I should certainly have done so. I had better
see my nephew at once,' said the old lady, twirling her reticule
indignantly, and rising as she spoke.

'Stop a moment, ma'am,' said Bob Sawyer; 'I'm afraid I have not
understood you. What _is_ the matter, ma'am?'

'My niece, Mr. Sawyer,' said the old lady: 'your friend's sister.'

'Yes, ma'am,' said Bob, all impatience; for the old lady, although much
agitated, spoke with the most tantalising deliberation, as old ladies
often do. 'Yes, ma'am.'

'Left my home, Mr. Sawyer, three days ago, on a pretended visit to my
sister, another aunt of hers, who keeps the large boarding-school, just
beyond the third mile-stone, where there is a very large laburnum-tree
and an oak gate,' said the old lady, stopping in this place to dry her
eyes.

'Oh, devil take the laburnum-tree, ma'am!' said Bob, quite forgetting
his professional dignity in his anxiety. 'Get on a little faster; put a
little more steam on, ma'am, pray.'

'This morning,' said the old lady slowly--'this morning, she--'

'She came back, ma'am, I suppose,' said Bob, with great animation. 'Did
she come back?'

'No, she did not; she wrote,' replied the old lady.

'What did she say?' inquired Bob eagerly.

'She said, Mr. Sawyer,' replied the old lady--'and it is this I want to
prepare Benjamin's mind for, gently and by degrees; she said that she
was--I have got the letter in my pocket, Mr. Sawyer, but my glasses are
in the carriage, and I should only waste your time if I attempted to
point out the passage to you, without them; she said, in short, Mr.
Sawyer, that she was married.'

What!' said, or rather shouted, Mr. Bob Sawyer.

'Married,' repeated the old lady.

Mr. Bob Sawyer stopped to hear no more; but darting from the surgery
into the outer shop, cried in a stentorian voice, 'Ben, my boy, she's
bolted!'

Mr. Ben Allen, who had been slumbering behind the counter, with his head
half a foot or so below his knees, no sooner heard this appalling
communication, than he made a precipitate rush at Mr. Martin, and,
twisting his hand in the neck-cloth of that taciturn servitor, expressed
an obliging intention of choking him where he stood. This intention,
with a promptitude often the effect of desperation, he at once commenced
carrying into execution, with much vigour and surgical skill.

Mr. Martin, who was a man of few words and possessed but little power of
eloquence or persuasion, submitted to this operation with a very calm
and agreeable expression of countenance, for some seconds; finding,
however, that it threatened speedily to lead to a result which would
place it beyond his power to claim any wages, board or otherwise, in all
time to come, he muttered an inarticulate remonstrance and felled Mr.
Benjamin Allen to the ground. As that gentleman had his hands entangled
in his cravat, he had no alternative but to follow him to the floor.
There they both lay struggling, when the shop door opened, and the party
was increased by the arrival of two most unexpected visitors, to wit,
Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Samuel Weller.

The impression at once produced on Mr. Weller's mind by what he saw,
was, that Mr. Martin was hired by the establishment of Sawyer, late
Nockemorf, to take strong medicine, or to go into fits and be
experimentalised upon, or to swallow poison now and then with the view
of testing the efficacy of some new antidotes, or to do something or
other to promote the great science of medicine, and gratify the ardent
spirit of inquiry burning in the bosoms of its two young professors. So,
without presuming to interfere, Sam stood perfectly still, and looked
on, as if he were mightily interested in the result of the then pending
experiment. Not so, Mr. Pickwick. He at once threw himself on the
astonished combatants, with his accustomed energy, and loudly called
upon the bystanders to interpose.

This roused Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been hitherto quite paralysed by the
frenzy of his companion. With that gentleman's assistance, Mr. Pickwick
raised Ben Allen to his feet. Mr. Martin finding himself alone on the
floor, got up, and looked about him.

'Mr. Allen,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'what is the matter, Sir?'

'Never mind, Sir!' replied Mr. Allen, with haughty defiance.

'What is it?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, looking at Bob Sawyer. 'Is he
unwell?'

Before Bob could reply, Mr. Ben Allen seized Mr. Pickwick by the hand,
and murmured, in sorrowful accents, 'My sister, my dear Sir; my sister.'

'Oh, is that all!' said Mr. Pickwick. 'We shall easily arrange that
matter, I hope. Your sister is safe and well, and I am here, my dear
Sir, to--'

'Sorry to do anythin' as may cause an interruption to such wery pleasant
proceedin's, as the king said wen he dissolved the parliament,'
interposed Mr. Weller, who had been peeping through the glass door; 'but
there's another experiment here, sir. Here's a wenerable old lady a--
lyin' on the carpet waitin' for dissection, or galwinism, or some other
rewivin' and scientific inwention.'

'I forgot,' exclaimed Mr. Ben Allen. 'It is my aunt.'

'Dear me!' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Poor lady! Gently Sam, gently.'

'Strange sitivation for one o' the family,' observed Sam Weller,
hoisting the aunt into a chair. 'Now depitty sawbones, bring out the
wollatilly!'

The latter observation was addressed to the boy in gray, who, having
handed over the fly to the care of the street-keeper, had come back to
see what all the noise was about. Between the boy in gray, and Mr. Bob
Sawyer, and Mr. Benjamin Allen (who having frightened his aunt into a
fainting fit, was affectionately solicitous for her recovery) the old
lady was at length restored to consciousness; then Mr. Ben Allen,
turning with a puzzled countenance to Mr. Pickwick, asked him what he
was about to say, when he had been so alarmingly interrupted.

'We are all friends here, I presume?' said Mr. Pickwick, clearing his
voice, and looking towards the man of few words with the surly
countenance, who drove the fly with the chubby horse.

This reminded Mr. Bob Sawyer that the boy in gray was looking on, with
eyes wide open, and greedy ears. The incipient chemist having been
lifted up by his coat collar, and dropped outside the door, Bob Sawyer
assured Mr. Pickwick that he might speak without reserve.

'Your sister, my dear Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, turning to Benjamin
Allen, 'is in London; well and happy.'

'Her happiness is no object to me, sir,' said Benjamin Allen, with a
flourish of the hand.

'Her husband _is_ an object to _me_, Sir,' said Bob Sawyer. 'He shall be
an object to me, sir, at twelve paces, and a pretty object I'll make of
him, sir--a mean-spirited scoundrel!' This, as it stood, was a very
pretty denunciation, and magnanimous withal; but Mr. Bob Sawyer rather
weakened its effect, by winding up with some general observations
concerning the punching of heads and knocking out of eyes, which were
commonplace by comparison.

'Stay, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'before you apply those epithets to the
gentleman in question, consider, dispassionately, the extent of his
fault, and above all remember that he is a friend of mine.'

'What!' said Mr. Bob Sawyer. 'His name!' cried Ben Allen. 'His name!'

'Mr. Nathaniel Winkle,' said Mr. Pickwick.

Mr. Benjamin Allen deliberately crushed his spectacles beneath the heel
of his boot, and having picked up the pieces, and put them into three
separate pockets, folded his arms, bit his lips, and looked in a
threatening manner at the bland features of Mr. Pickwick.

'Then it's you, is it, Sir, who have encouraged and brought about this
match?' inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen at length.

'And it's this gentleman's servant, I suppose,' interrupted the old
lady, 'who has been skulking about my house, and endeavouring to entrap
my servants to conspire against their mistress.--Martin!'

'Well?' said the surly man, coming forward.

'Is that the young man you saw in the lane, whom you told me about, this
morning?'

Mr. Martin, who, as it has already appeared, was a man of few words,
looked at Sam Weller, nodded his head, and growled forth, 'That's the
man.' Mr. Weller, who was never proud, gave a smile of friendly
recognition as his eyes encountered those of the surly groom, and
admitted in courteous terms, that he had 'knowed him afore.'

'And this is the faithful creature,' exclaimed Mr. Ben Allen, 'whom I
had nearly suffocated!--Mr. Pickwick, how dare you allow your fellow to
be employed in the abduction of my sister? I demand that you explain
this matter, sir.'

'Explain it, sir!' cried Bob Sawyer fiercely.

'It's a conspiracy,' said Ben Allen.

'A regular plant,' added Mr. Bob Sawyer.

'A disgraceful imposition,' observed the old lady.

'Nothing but a do,' remarked Martin.

'Pray hear me,' urged Mr. Pickwick, as Mr. Ben Allen fell into a chair
that patients were bled in, and gave way to his pocket-handkerchief. 'I
have rendered no assistance in this matter, beyond being present at one
interview between the young people which I could not prevent, and from
which I conceived my presence would remove any slight colouring of
impropriety that it might otherwise have had; this is the whole share I
have had in the transaction, and I had no suspicion that an immediate
marriage was even contemplated. Though, mind,' added Mr. Pickwick,
hastily checking himself--'mind, I do not say I should have prevented
it, if I had known that it was intended.'

'You hear that, all of you; you hear that?' said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

'I hope they do,' mildly observed Mr. Pickwick, looking round, 'and,'
added that gentleman, his colour mounting as he spoke, 'I hope they hear
this, Sir, also. That from what has been stated to me, sir, I assert
that you were by no means justified in attempting to force your sister's
inclinations as you did, and that you should rather have endeavoured by
your kindness and forbearance to have supplied the place of other nearer
relations whom she had never known, from a child. As regards my young
friend, I must beg to add, that in every point of worldly advantage he
is, at least, on an equal footing with yourself, if not on a much better
one, and that unless I hear this question discussed with becoming temper
and moderation, I decline hearing any more said upon the subject.'

'I wish to make a wery few remarks in addition to wot has been put
for'ard by the honourable gen'l'm'n as has jist give over,' said Mr.
Weller, stepping forth, 'wich is this here: a indiwidual in company has
called me a feller.'

'That has nothing whatever to do with the matter, Sam,' interposed Mr.
Pickwick. 'Pray hold your tongue.'

'I ain't a-goin' to say nothin' on that 'ere pint, sir,' replied Sam,
'but merely this here. P'raps that gen'l'm'n may think as there wos a
priory 'tachment; but there worn't nothin' o' the sort, for the young
lady said in the wery beginnin' o' the keepin' company, that she
couldn't abide him. Nobody's cut him out, and it 'ud ha' been jist the
wery same for him if the young lady had never seen Mr. Vinkle. That's
what I wished to say, sir, and I hope I've now made that 'ere
gen'l'm'n's mind easy.

A short pause followed these consolatory remarks of Mr. Weller. Then Mr.
Ben Allen rising from his chair, protested that he would never see
Arabella's face again; while Mr. Bob Sawyer, despite Sam's flattering
assurance, vowed dreadful vengeance on the happy bridegroom.

But, just when matters were at their height, and threatening to remain
so, Mr. Pickwick found a powerful assistant in the old lady, who,
evidently much struck by the mode in which he had advocated her niece's
cause, ventured to approach Mr. Benjamin Allen with a few comforting
reflections, of which the chief were, that after all, perhaps, it was
well it was no worse; the least said the soonest mended, and upon her
word she did not know that it was so very bad after all; what was over
couldn't be begun, and what couldn't be cured must be endured; with
various other assurances of the like novel and strengthening
description. To all of these, Mr. Benjamin Allen replied that he meant
no disrespect to his aunt, or anybody there, but if it were all the same
to them, and they would allow him to have his own way, he would rather
have the pleasure of hating his sister till death, and after it.

At length, when this determination had been announced half a hundred
times, the old lady suddenly bridling up and looking very majestic,
wished to know what she had done that no respect was to be paid to her
years or station, and that she should be obliged to beg and pray, in
that way, of her own nephew, whom she remembered about five-and-twenty
years before he was born, and whom she had known, personally, when he
hadn't a tooth in his head; to say nothing of her presence on the first
occasion of his having his hair cut, and assistance at numerous other
times and ceremonies during his babyhood, of sufficient importance to
found a claim upon his affection, obedience, and sympathies, for ever.

While the good lady was bestowing this objurgation on Mr. Ben Allen, Bob
Sawyer and Mr. Pickwick had retired in close conversation to the inner
room, where Mr. Sawyer was observed to apply himself several times to
the mouth of a black bottle, under the influence of which, his features
gradually assumed a cheerful and even jovial expression. And at last he
emerged from the room, bottle in hand, and, remarking that he was very
sorry to say he had been making a fool of himself, begged to propose the
health and happiness of Mr. and Mrs. Winkle, whose felicity, so far from
envying, he would be the first to congratulate them upon. Hearing this,
Mr. Ben Allen suddenly arose from his chair, and, seizing the black
bottle, drank the toast so heartily, that, the liquor being strong, he
became nearly as black in the face as the bottle. Finally, the black
bottle went round till it was empty, and there was so much shaking of
hands and interchanging of compliments, that even the metal-visaged Mr.
Martin condescended to smile.

'And now,' said Bob Sawyer, rubbing his hands, 'we'll have a jolly
night.'

'I am sorry,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'that I must return to my inn. I have
not been accustomed to fatigue lately, and my journey has tired me
exceedingly.'

'You'll take some tea, Mr. Pickwick?' said the old lady, with
irresistible sweetness.

'Thank you, I would rather not,' replied that gentleman. The truth is,
that the old lady's evidently increasing admiration was Mr. Pickwick's
principal inducement for going away. He thought of Mrs. Bardell; and
every glance of the old lady's eyes threw him into a cold perspiration.

As Mr. Pickwick could by no means be prevailed upon to stay, it was
arranged at once, on his own proposition, that Mr. Benjamin Allen should
accompany him on his journey to the elder Mr. Winkle's, and that the
coach should be at the door, at nine o'clock next morning. He then took
his leave, and, followed by Samuel Weller, repaired to the Bush. It is
worthy of remark, that Mr. Martin's face was horribly convulsed as he
shook hands with Sam at parting, and that he gave vent to a smile and an
oath simultaneously; from which tokens it has been inferred by those who
were best acquainted with that gentleman's peculiarities, that he
expressed himself much pleased with Mr. Weller's society, and requested
the honour of his further acquaintance.

'Shall I order a private room, Sir?' inquired Sam, when they reached the
Bush.

'Why, no, Sam,' replied Mr. Pickwick; 'as I dined in the coffee-room,
and shall go to bed soon, it is hardly worth while. See who there is in
the travellers' room, Sam.'

Mr. Weller departed on his errand, and presently returned to say that
there was only a gentleman with one eye; and that he and the landlord
were drinking a bowl of bishop together.

'I will join them,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'He's a queer customer, the vun-eyed vun, sir,' observed Mr. Weller, as
he led the way. 'He's a-gammonin' that 'ere landlord, he is, sir, till
he don't rightly know wether he's a-standing on the soles of his boots
or the crown of his hat.'

The individual to whom this observation referred, was sitting at the
upper end of the room when Mr. Pickwick entered, and was smoking a large
Dutch pipe, with his eye intently fixed on the round face of the
landlord; a jolly-looking old personage, to whom he had recently been
relating some tale of wonder, as was testified by sundry disjointed
exclamations of, 'Well, I wouldn't have believed it! The strangest thing
I ever heard! Couldn't have supposed it possible!' and other expressions
of astonishment which burst spontaneously from his lips, as he returned
the fixed gaze of the one-eyed man.

'Servant, sir,' said the one-eyed man to Mr. Pickwick. 'Fine night,
sir.'

'Very much so indeed,' replied Mr. Pickwick, as the waiter placed a
small decanter of brandy, and some hot water before him.

While Mr. Pickwick was mixing his brandy-and-water, the one-eyed man
looked round at him earnestly, from time to time, and at length said--

'I think I've seen you before.'

'I don't recollect you,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick.

'I dare say not,' said the one-eyed man. 'You didn't know me, but I knew
two friends of yours that were stopping at the Peacock at Eatanswill, at
the time of the election.'

'Oh, indeed!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

'Yes,' rejoined the one-eyed man. 'I mentioned a little circumstance to
them about a friend of mine of the name of Tom Smart. Perhaps you've
heard them speak of it.'

'Often,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick, smiling. 'He was your uncle, I think?'

'No, no; only a friend of my uncle's,' replied the one-eyed man.

'He was a wonderful man, that uncle of yours, though,' remarked the
landlord shaking his head.

'Well, I think he was; I think I may say he was,' answered the one-eyed
man. 'I could tell you a story about that same uncle, gentlemen, that
would rather surprise you.'

'Could you?' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Let us hear it, by all means.'

The one-eyed bagman ladled out a glass of negus from the bowl, and drank
it; smoked a long whiff out of the Dutch pipe; and then, calling to Sam
Weller who was lingering near the door, that he needn't go away unless
he wanted to, because the story was no secret, fixed his eye upon the
landlord's, and proceeded, in the words of the next chapter.

My uncle, gentlemen,' said the bagman, 'was one of the merriest,
pleasantest, cleverest fellows, that ever lived. I wish you had known
him, gentlemen. On second thoughts, gentlemen, I don't wish you had
known him, for if you had, you would have been all, by this time, in the
ordinary course of nature, if not dead, at all events so near it, as to
have taken to stopping at home and giving up company, which would have
deprived me of the inestimable pleasure of addressing you at this
moment. Gentlemen, I wish your fathers and mothers had known my uncle.
They would have been amazingly fond of him, especially your respectable
mothers; I know they would. If any two of his numerous virtues
predominated over the many that adorned his character, I should say they
were his mixed punch and his after-supper song. Excuse my dwelling on
these melancholy recollections of departed worth; you won't see a man
like my uncle every day in the week.

'I have always considered it a great point in my uncle's character,
gentlemen, that he was the intimate friend and companion of Tom Smart,
of the great house of Bilson and Slum, Cateaton Street, City. My uncle
collected for Tiggin and Welps, but for a long time he went pretty near
the same journey as Tom; and the very first night they met, my uncle
took a fancy for Tom, and Tom took a fancy for my uncle. They made a bet
of a new hat before they had known each other half an hour, who should
brew the best quart of punch and drink it the quickest. My uncle was
judged to have won the making, but Tom Smart beat him in the drinking by
about half a salt-spoonful. They took another quart apiece to drink each
other's health in, and were staunch friends ever afterwards. There's a
destiny in these things, gentlemen; we can't help it.

'In personal appearance, my uncle was a trifle shorter than the middle
size; he was a thought stouter too, than the ordinary run of people, and
perhaps his face might be a shade redder. He had the jolliest face you
ever saw, gentleman: something like Punch, with a handsome nose and
chin; his eyes were always twinkling and sparkling with good-humour; and
a smile--not one of your unmeaning wooden grins, but a real, merry,
hearty, good-tempered smile--was perpetually on his countenance. He was
pitched out of his gig once, and knocked, head first, against a
milestone. There he lay, stunned, and so cut about the face with some
gravel which had been heaped up alongside it, that, to use my uncle's
own strong expression, if his mother could have revisited the earth, she
wouldn't have known him. Indeed, when I come to think of the matter,
gentlemen, I feel pretty sure she wouldn't, for she died when my uncle
was two years and seven months old, and I think it's very likely that,
even without the gravel, his top-boots would have puzzled the good lady
not a little; to say nothing of his jolly red face. However, there he
lay, and I have heard my uncle say, many a time, that the man said who
picked him up that he was smiling as merrily as if he had tumbled out
for a treat, and that after they had bled him, the first faint
glimmerings of returning animation, were his jumping up in bed, bursting
out into a loud laugh, kissing the young woman who held the basin, and
demanding a mutton chop and a pickled walnut. He was very fond of
pickled walnuts, gentlemen. He said he always found that, taken without
vinegar, they relished the beer.

'My uncle's great journey was in the fall of the leaf, at which time he
collected debts, and took orders, in the north; going from London to
Edinburgh, from Edinburgh to Glasgow, from Glasgow back to Edinburgh,
and thence to London by the smack. You are to understand that his second
visit to Edinburgh was for his own pleasure. He used to go back for a
week, just to look up his old friends; and what with breakfasting with
this one, lunching with that, dining with the third, and supping with
another, a pretty tight week he used to make of it. I don't know whether
any of you, gentlemen, ever partook of a real substantial hospitable
Scotch breakfast, and then went out to a slight lunch of a bushel of
oysters, a dozen or so of bottled ale, and a noggin or two of whiskey to
close up with. If you ever did, you will agree with me that it requires
a pretty strong head to go out to dinner and supper afterwards.

'But bless your hearts and eyebrows, all this sort of thing was nothing
to my uncle! He was so well seasoned, that it was mere child's play. I
have heard him say that he could see the Dundee people out, any day, and
walk home afterwards without staggering; and yet the Dundee people have
as strong heads and as strong punch, gentlemen, as you are likely to
meet with, between the poles. I have heard of a Glasgow man and a Dundee
man drinking against each other for fifteen hours at a sitting. They
were both suffocated, as nearly as could be ascertained, at the same
moment, but with this trifling exception, gentlemen, they were not a bit
the worse for it.

'One night, within four-and-twenty hours of the time when he had settled
to take shipping for London, my uncle supped at the house of a very old
friend of his, a Bailie Mac something and four syllables after it, who
lived in the old town of Edinburgh. There were the bailie's wife, and
the bailie's three daughters, and the bailie's grown-up son, and three
or four stout, bushy eye-browed, canny, old Scotch fellows, that the
bailie had got together to do honour to my uncle, and help to make
merry. It was a glorious supper. There was kippered salmon, and Finnan
haddocks, and a lamb's head, and a haggis--a celebrated Scotch dish,
gentlemen, which my uncle used to say always looked to him, when it came
to table, very much like a Cupid's stomach--and a great many other
things besides, that I forget the names of, but very good things,
notwithstanding. The lassies were pretty and agreeable; the bailie's
wife was one of the best creatures that ever lived; and my uncle was in
thoroughly good cue. The consequence of which was, that the young ladies
tittered and giggled, and the old lady laughed out loud, and the bailie
and the other old fellows roared till they were red in the face, the
whole mortal time. I don't quite recollect how many tumblers of whiskey-
toddy each man drank after supper; but this I know, that about one
o'clock in the morning, the bailie's grown-up son became insensible
while attempting the first verse of "Willie brewed a peck o' maut"; and
he having been, for half an hour before, the only other man visible
above the mahogany, it occurred to my uncle that it was almost time to
think about going, especially as drinking had set in at seven o'clock,
in order that he might get home at a decent hour. But, thinking it might
not be quite polite to go just then, my uncle voted himself into the
chair, mixed another glass, rose to propose his own health, addressed
himself in a neat and complimentary speech, and drank the toast with
great enthusiasm. Still nobody woke; so my uncle took a little drop
more--neat this time, to prevent the toddy from disagreeing with him--
and, laying violent hands on his hat, sallied forth into the street.

'It was a wild, gusty night when my uncle closed the bailie's door, and
settling his hat firmly on his head to prevent the wind from taking it,
thrust his hands into his pockets, and looking upward, took a short
survey of the state of the weather. The clouds were drifting over the
moon at their giddiest speed; at one time wholly obscuring her; at
another, suffering her to burst forth in full splendour and shed her
light on all the objects around; anon, driving over her again, with
increased velocity, and shrouding everything in darkness. "Really, this
won't do," said my uncle, addressing himself to the weather, as if he
felt himself personally offended. "This is not at all the kind of thing
for my voyage. It will not do at any price," said my uncle, very
impressively. Having repeated this, several times, he recovered his
balance with some difficulty--for he was rather giddy with looking up
into the sky so long--and walked merrily on.

'The bailie's house was in the Canongate, and my uncle was going to the
other end of Leith Walk, rather better than a mile's journey. On either
side of him, there shot up against the dark sky, tall, gaunt, straggling
houses, with time-stained fronts, and windows that seemed to have shared
the lot of eyes in mortals, and to have grown dim and sunken with age.
Six, seven, eight storey high, were the houses; storey piled upon
storey, as children build with cards--throwing their dark shadows over
the roughly paved road, and making the dark night darker. A few oil
lamps were scattered at long distances, but they only served to mark the
dirty entrance to some narrow close, or to show where a common stair
communicated, by steep and intricate windings, with the various flats
above. Glancing at all these things with the air of a man who had seen
them too often before, to think them worthy of much notice now, my uncle
walked up the middle of the street, with a thumb in each waistcoat
pocket, indulging from time to time in various snatches of song, chanted
forth with such good-will and spirit, that the quiet honest folk started
from their first sleep and lay trembling in bed till the sound died away
in the distance; when, satisfying themselves that it was only some
drunken ne'er-do-weel finding his way home, they covered themselves up
warm and fell asleep again.

'I am particular in describing how my uncle walked up the middle of the
street, with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, gentlemen, because, as
he often used to say (and with great reason too) there is nothing at all
extraordinary in this story, unless you distinctly understand at the
beginning, that he was not by any means of a marvellous or romantic
turn.

'Gentlemen, my uncle walked on with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets,
taking the middle of the street to himself, and singing, now a verse of
a love song, and then a verse of a drinking one, and when he was tired
of both, whistling melodiously, until he reached the North Bridge,
which, at this point, connects the old and new towns of Edinburgh. Here
he stopped for a minute, to look at the strange, irregular clusters of
lights piled one above the other, and twinkling afar off so high, that
they looked like stars, gleaming from the castle walls on the one side
and the Calton Hill on the other, as if they illuminated veritable
castles in the air; while the old picturesque town slept heavily on, in
gloom and darkness below: its palace and chapel of Holyrood, guarded day
and night, as a friend of my uncle's used to say, by old Arthur's Seat,
towering, surly and dark, like some gruff genius, over the ancient city
he has watched so long. I say, gentlemen, my uncle stopped here, for a
minute, to look about him; and then, paying a compliment to the weather,
which had a little cleared up, though the moon was sinking, walked on
again, as royally as before; keeping the middle of the road with great
dignity, and looking as if he would very much like to meet with somebody
who would dispute possession of it with him. There was nobody at all
disposed to contest the point, as it happened; and so, on he went, with
his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, like a lamb.

'When my uncle reached the end of Leith Walk, he had to cross a pretty
large piece of waste ground which separated him from a short street
which he had to turn down to go direct to his lodging. Now, in this
piece of waste ground, there was, at that time, an enclosure belonging
to some wheelwright who contracted with the Post Office for the purchase
of old, worn-out mail coaches; and my uncle, being very fond of coaches,
old, young, or middle-aged, all at once took it into his head to step
out of his road for no other purpose than to peep between the palings at
these mails--about a dozen of which he remembered to have seen, crowded
together in a very forlorn and dismantled state, inside. My uncle was a
very enthusiastic, emphatic sort of person, gentlemen; so, finding that
he could not obtain a good peep between the palings he got over them,
and sitting himself quietly down on an old axle-tree, began to
contemplate the mail coaches with a deal of gravity.

'There might be a dozen of them, or there might be more--my uncle was
never quite certain on this point, and being a man of very scrupulous
veracity about numbers, didn't like to say--but there they stood, all
huddled together in the most desolate condition imaginable. The doors
had been torn from their hinges and removed; the linings had been
stripped off, only a shred hanging here and there by a rusty nail; the
lamps were gone, the poles had long since vanished, the ironwork was
rusty, the paint was worn away; the wind whistled through the chinks in
the bare woodwork; and the rain, which had collected on the roofs, fell,
drop by drop, into the insides with a hollow and melancholy sound. They
were the decaying skeletons of departed mails, and in that lonely place,
at that time of night, they looked chill and dismal.

'My uncle rested his head upon his hands, and thought of the busy,
bustling people who had rattled about, years before, in the old coaches,
and were now as silent and changed; he thought of the numbers of people
to whom one of these crazy, mouldering vehicles had borne, night after
night, for many years, and through all weathers, the anxiously expected
intelligence, the eagerly looked-for remittance, the promised assurance
of health and safety, the sudden announcement of sickness and death. The
merchant, the lover, the wife, the widow, the mother, the school-boy,
the very child who tottered to the door at the postman's knock--how had
they all looked forward to the arrival of the old coach. And where were
they all now?

'Gentlemen, my uncle used to _say _that he thought all this at the time,
but I rather suspect he learned it out of some book afterwards, for he
distinctly stated that he fell into a kind of doze, as he sat on the old
axle-tree looking at the decayed mail coaches, and that he was suddenly
awakened by some deep church bell striking two. Now, my uncle was never
a fast thinker, and if he had thought all these things, I am quite
certain it would have taken him till full half-past two o'clock at the
very least. I am, therefore, decidedly of opinion, gentlemen, that my
uncle fell into a kind of doze, without having thought about anything at
all.

'Be this as it may, a church bell struck two. My uncle woke, rubbed his
eyes, and jumped up in astonishment.

'In one instant, after the clock struck two, the whole of this deserted
and quiet spot had become a scene of most extraordinary life and
animation. The mail coach doors were on their hinges, the lining was
replaced, the ironwork was as good as new, the paint was restored, the
lamps were alight; cushions and greatcoats were on every coach-box,
porters were thrusting parcels into every boot, guards were stowing away
letter-bags, hostlers were dashing pails of water against the renovated
wheels; numbers of men were pushing about, fixing poles into every
coach; passengers arrived, portmanteaus were handed up, horses were put
to; in short, it was perfectly clear that every mail there, was to be
off directly. Gentlemen, my uncle opened his eyes so wide at all this,
that, to the very last moment of his life, he used to wonder how it fell
out that he had ever been able to shut 'em again.

'"Now then!" said a voice, as my uncle felt a hand on his shoulder,
"you're booked for one inside. You'd better get in."

'"I booked!" said my uncle, turning round.

'"Yes, certainly."

'My uncle, gentlemen, could say nothing, he was so very much astonished.
The queerest thing of all was that although there was such a crowd of
persons, and although fresh faces were pouring in, every moment, there
was no telling where they came from. They seemed to start up, in some
strange manner, from the ground, or the air, and disappear in the same
way. When a porter had put his luggage in the coach, and received his
fare, he turned round and was gone; and before my uncle had well begun
to wonder what had become of him, half a dozen fresh ones started up,
and staggered along under the weight of parcels, which seemed big enough
to crush them. The passengers were all dressed so oddly too! Large,
broad-skirted laced coats, with great cuffs and no collars; and wigs,
gentlemen--great formal wigs with a tie behind. My uncle could make
nothing of it.

'"Now, are you going to get in?" said the person who had addressed my
uncle before. He was dressed as a mail guard, with a wig on his head and
most enormous cuffs to his coat, and had a lantern in one hand, and a
huge blunderbuss in the other, which he was going to stow away in his
little arm-chest. "_are _you going to get in, Jack Martin?" said the
guard, holding the lantern to my uncle's face.

'"Hollo!" said my uncle, falling back a step or two. "That's familiar!"

'"It's so on the way-bill," said the guard.

'"Isn't there a 'Mister' before it?" said my uncle. For he felt,
gentlemen, that for a guard he didn't know, to call him Jack Martin, was
a liberty which the Post Office wouldn't have sanctioned if they had
known it.

'"No, there is not," rejoined the guard coolly.

'"Is the fare paid?" inquired my uncle.

'"Of course it is," rejoined the guard.

'"It is, is it?" said my uncle. "Then here goes! Which coach?"

'"This," said the guard, pointing to an old-fashioned Edinburgh and
London mail, which had the steps down and the door open. "Stop! Here are
the other passengers. Let them get in first."

'As the guard spoke, there all at once appeared, right in front of my
uncle, a young gentleman in a powdered wig, and a sky-blue coat trimmed
with silver, made very full and broad in the skirts, which were lined
with buckram. Tiggin and Welps were in the printed calico and waistcoat
piece line, gentlemen, so my uncle knew all the materials at once. He
wore knee breeches, and a kind of leggings rolled up over his silk
stockings, and shoes with buckles; he had ruffles at his wrists, a
three-cornered hat on his head, and a long taper sword by his side. The
flaps of his waist-coat came half-way down his thighs, and the ends of
his cravat reached to his waist. He stalked gravely to the coach door,
pulled off his hat, and held it above his head at arm's length, cocking
his little finger in the air at the same time, as some affected people
do, when they take a cup of tea. Then he drew his feet together, and
made a low, grave bow, and then put out his left hand. My uncle was just
going to step forward, and shake it heartily, when he perceived that
these attentions were directed, not towards him, but to a young lady who
just then appeared at the foot of the steps, attired in an old-fashioned
green velvet dress with a long waist and stomacher. She had no bonnet on
her head, gentlemen, which was muffled in a black silk hood, but she
looked round for an instant as she prepared to get into the coach, and
such a beautiful face as she disclosed, my uncle had never seen--not
even in a picture. She got into the coach, holding up her dress with one
hand; and as my uncle always said with a round oath, when he told the
story, he wouldn't have believed it possible that legs and feet could
have been brought to such a state of perfection unless he had seen them
with his own eyes.

'But, in this one glimpse of the beautiful face, my uncle saw that the
young lady cast an imploring look upon him, and that she appeared
terrified and distressed. He noticed, too, that the young fellow in the
powdered wig, notwithstanding his show of gallantry, which was all very
fine and grand, clasped her tight by the wrist when she got in, and
followed himself immediately afterwards. An uncommonly ill-looking
fellow, in a close brown wig, and a plum-coloured suit, wearing a very
large sword, and boots up to his hips, belonged to the party; and when
he sat himself down next to the young lady, who shrank into a corner at
his approach, my uncle was confirmed in his original impression that
something dark and mysterious was going forward, or, as he always said
himself, that "there was a screw loose somewhere." It's quite surprising
how quickly he made up his mind to help the lady at any peril, if she
needed any help.

'"Death and lightning!" exclaimed the young gentleman, laying his hand
upon his sword as my uncle entered the coach.

'"Blood and thunder!" roared the other gentleman. With this, he whipped
his sword out, and made a lunge at my uncle without further ceremony. My
uncle had no weapon about him, but with great dexterity he snatched the
ill-looking gentleman's three-cornered hat from his head, and, receiving
the point of his sword right through the crown, squeezed the sides
together, and held it tight.

'"Pink him behind!" cried the ill-looking gentleman to his companion, as
he struggled to regain his sword.

'"He had better not," cried my uncle, displaying the heel of one of his
shoes, in a threatening manner. "I'll kick his brains out, if he has
any--, or fracture his skull if he hasn't." Exerting all his strength,
at this moment, my uncle wrenched the ill-looking man's sword from his
grasp, and flung it clean out of the coach window, upon which the
younger gentleman vociferated, "Death and lightning!" again, and laid
his hand upon the hilt of his sword, in a very fierce manner, but didn't
draw it. Perhaps, gentlemen, as my uncle used to say with a smile,
perhaps he was afraid of alarming the lady.

'"Now, gentlemen," said my uncle, taking his seat deliberately, "I don't
want to have any death, with or without lightning, in a lady's presence,
and we have had quite blood and thundering enough for one journey; so,
if you please, we'll sit in our places like quiet insides. Here, guard,
pick up that gentleman's carving-knife."

'As quickly as my uncle said the words, the guard appeared at the coach
window, with the gentleman's sword in his hand. He held up his lantern,
and looked earnestly in my uncle's face, as he handed it in, when, by
its light, my uncle saw, to his great surprise, that an immense crowd of
mail-coach guards swarmed round the window, every one of whom had his
eyes earnestly fixed upon him too. He had never seen such a sea of white
faces, red bodies, and earnest eyes, in all his born days.

'"This is the strangest sort of thing I ever had anything to do with,"
thought my uncle; "allow me to return you your hat, sir."

'The ill-looking gentleman received his three-cornered hat in silence,
looked at the hole in the middle with an inquiring air, and finally
stuck it on the top of his wig with a solemnity the effect of which was
a trifle impaired by his sneezing violently at the moment, and jerking
it off again.

'"All right!" cried the guard with the lantern, mounting into his little
seat behind. Away they went. My uncle peeped out of the coach window as
they emerged from the yard, and observed that the other mails, with
coachmen, guards, horses, and passengers, complete, were driving round
and round in circles, at a slow trot of about five miles an hour. My
uncle burned with indignation, gentlemen. As a commercial man, he felt
that the mail-bags were not to be trifled with, and he resolved to
memorialise the Post Office on the subject, the very instant he reached
London.

'At present, however, his thoughts were occupied with the young lady who
sat in the farthest corner of the coach, with her face muffled closely
in her hood; the gentleman with the sky-blue coat sitting opposite to
her; the other man in the plum-coloured suit, by her side; and both
watching her intently. If she so much as rustled the folds of her hood,
he could hear the ill-looking man clap his hand upon his sword, and
could tell by the other's breathing (it was so dark he couldn't see his
face) that he was looking as big as if he were going to devour her at a
mouthful. This roused my uncle more and more, and he resolved, come what
might, to see the end of it. He had a great admiration for bright eyes,
and sweet faces, and pretty legs and feet; in short, he was fond of the
whole sex. It runs in our family, gentleman--so am I.

'Many were the devices which my uncle practised, to attract the lady's
attention, or at all events, to engage the mysterious gentlemen in
conversation. They were all in vain; the gentlemen wouldn't talk, and
the lady didn't dare. He thrust his head out of the coach window at
intervals, and bawled out to know why they didn't go faster. But he
called till he was hoarse; nobody paid the least attention to him. He
leaned back in the coach, and thought of the beautiful face, and the
feet and legs. This answered better; it whiled away the time, and kept
him from wondering where he was going, and how it was that he found
himself in such an odd situation. Not that this would have worried him
much, anyway--he was a mighty free and easy, roving, devil-may-care sort
of person, was my uncle, gentlemen.

'All of a sudden the coach stopped. "Hollo!" said my uncle, "what's in
the wind now?"

'"Alight here," said the guard, letting down the steps.

'"Here!" cried my uncle.

'"Here," rejoined the guard.

'"I'll do nothing of the sort," said my uncle.

'"Very well, then stop where you are," said the guard.

'"I will," said my uncle.

'"Do," said the guard.

'The passengers had regarded this colloquy with great attention, and,
finding that my uncle was determined not to alight, the younger man
squeezed past him, to hand the lady out. At this moment, the ill-looking
man was inspecting the hole in the crown of his three-cornered hat. As
the young lady brushed past, she dropped one of her gloves into my
uncle's hand, and softly whispered, with her lips so close to his face
that he felt her warm breath on his nose, the single word "Help!"
Gentlemen, my uncle leaped out of the coach at once, with such violence
that it rocked on the springs again.

'"Oh! you've thought better of it, have you?" said the guard, when he
saw my uncle standing on the ground.

'My uncle looked at the guard for a few seconds, in some doubt whether
it wouldn't be better to wrench his blunderbuss from him, fire it in the
face of the man with the big sword, knock the rest of the company over
the head with the stock, snatch up the young lady, and go off in the
smoke. On second thoughts, however, he abandoned this plan, as being a
shade too melodramatic in the execution, and followed the two mysterious
men, who, keeping the lady between them, were now entering an old house
in front of which the coach had stopped. They turned into the passage,
and my uncle followed.

'Of all the ruinous and desolate places my uncle had ever beheld, this
was the most so. It looked as if it had once been a large house of
entertainment; but the roof had fallen in, in many places, and the
stairs were steep, rugged, and broken. There was a huge fireplace in the
room into which they walked, and the chimney was blackened with smoke;
but no warm blaze lighted it up now. The white feathery dust of burned
wood was still strewed over the hearth, but the stove was cold, and all
was dark and gloomy.

'"Well," said my uncle, as he looked about him, "a mail travelling at
the rate of six miles and a half an hour, and stopping for an indefinite
time at such a hole as this, is rather an irregular sort of proceeding,
I fancy. This shall be made known. I'll write to the papers."

'My uncle said this in a pretty loud voice, and in an open, unreserved
sort of manner, with the view of engaging the two strangers in
conversation if he could. But, neither of them took any more notice of
him than whispering to each other, and scowling at him as they did so.
The lady was at the farther end of the room, and once she ventured to
wave her hand, as if beseeching my uncle's assistance.

'At length the two strangers advanced a little, and the conversation
began in earnest.

'"You don't know this is a private room, I suppose, fellow?" said the
gentleman in sky-blue.

'"No, I do not, fellow," rejoined my uncle. "Only, if this is a private
room specially ordered for the occasion, I should think the public room
must be a _very _comfortable one;" with this, my uncle sat himself down
in a high-backed chair, and took such an accurate measure of the
gentleman, with his eyes, that Tiggin and Welps could have supplied him
with printed calico for a suit, and not an inch too much or too little,
from that estimate alone.

'"Quit this room," said both men together, grasping their swords.

'"Eh?" said my uncle, not at all appearing to comprehend their meaning.

'"Quit the room, or you are a dead man," said the ill-looking fellow
with the large sword, drawing it at the same time and flourishing it in
the air.

'"Down with him!" cried the gentleman in sky-blue, drawing his sword
also, and falling back two or three yards. "Down with him!" The lady
gave a loud scream.

'Now, my uncle was always remarkable for great boldness, and great
presence of mind. All the time that he had appeared so indifferent to
what was going on, he had been looking slily about for some missile or
weapon of defence, and at the very instant when the swords were drawn,
he espied, standing in the chimney-corner, an old basket-hilted rapier
in a rusty scabbard. At one bound, my uncle caught it in his hand, drew
it, flourished it gallantly above his head, called aloud to the lady to
keep out of the way, hurled the chair at the man in sky-blue, and the
scabbard at the man in plum-colour, and taking advantage of the
confusion, fell upon them both, pell-mell.

'Gentlemen, there is an old story--none the worse for being true--
regarding a fine young Irish gentleman, who being asked if he could play
the fiddle, replied he had no doubt he could, but he couldn't exactly
say, for certain, because he had never tried. This is not inapplicable
to my uncle and his fencing. He had never had a sword in his hand
before, except once when he played Richard the Third at a private
theatre, upon which occasion it was arranged with Richmond that he was
to be run through, from behind, without showing fight at all. But here
he was, cutting and slashing with two experienced swordsman, thrusting,
and guarding, and poking, and slicing, and acquitting himself in the
most manful and dexterous manner possible, although up to that time he
had never been aware that he had the least notion of the science. It
only shows how true the old saying is, that a man never knows what he
can do till he tries, gentlemen.

'The noise of the combat was terrific; each of the three combatants
swearing like troopers, and their swords clashing with as much noise as
if all the knives and steels in Newport market were rattling together,
at the same time. When it was at its very height, the lady (to encourage
my uncle most probably) withdrew her hood entirely from her face, and
disclosed a countenance of such dazzling beauty, that he would have
fought against fifty men, to win one smile from it and die. He had done
wonders before, but now he began to powder away like a raving mad giant.

'At this very moment, the gentleman in sky-blue turning round, and
seeing the young lady with her face uncovered, vented an exclamation of
rage and jealousy, and, turning his weapon against her beautiful bosom,
pointed a thrust at her heart, which caused my uncle to utter a cry of
apprehension that made the building ring. The lady stepped lightly
aside, and snatching the young man's sword from his hand, before he had
recovered his balance, drove him to the wall, and running it through
him, and the panelling, up to the very hilt, pinned him there, hard and
fast. It was a splendid example. My uncle, with a loud shout of triumph,
and a strength that was irresistible, made his adversary retreat in the
same direction, and plunging the old rapier into the very centre of a
large red flower in the pattern of his waistcoat, nailed him beside his
friend; there they both stood, gentlemen, jerking their arms and legs
about in agony, like the toy-shop figures that are moved by a piece of
pack-thread. My uncle always said, afterwards, that this was one of the
surest means he knew of, for disposing of an enemy; but it was liable to
one objection on the ground of expense, inasmuch as it involved the loss
of a sword for every man disabled.

'"The mail, the mail!" cried the lady, running up to my uncle and
throwing her beautiful arms round his neck; "we may yet escape."

'"May!" cried my uncle; "why, my dear, there's nobody else to kill, is
there?" My uncle was rather disappointed, gentlemen, for he thought a
little quiet bit of love-making would be agreeable after the
slaughtering, if it were only to change the subject.

'"We have not an instant to lose here," said the young lady. "He
(pointing to the young gentleman in sky-blue) is the only son of the
powerful Marquess of Filletoville."

'"Well then, my dear, I'm afraid he'll never come to the title," said my
uncle, looking coolly at the young gentleman as he stood fixed up
against the wall, in the cockchafer fashion that I have described. "You
have cut off the entail, my love."

'"I have been torn from my home and my friends by these villains," said
the young lady, her features glowing with indignation. "That wretch
would have married me by violence in another hour."

'"Confound his impudence!" said my uncle, bestowing a very contemptuous
look on the dying heir of Filletoville.

'"As you may guess from what you have seen," said the young lady, "the
party were prepared to murder me if I appealed to any one for
assistance. If their accomplices find us here, we are lost. Two minutes
hence may be too late. The mail!" With these words, overpowered by her
feelings, and the exertion of sticking the young Marquess of
Filletoville, she sank into my uncle's arms. My uncle caught her up, and
bore her to the house door. There stood the mail, with four long-tailed,
flowing-maned, black horses, ready harnessed; but no coachman, no guard,
no hostler even, at the horses' heads.

'Gentlemen, I hope I do no injustice to my uncle's memory, when I
express my opinion, that although he was a bachelor, he had held some
ladies in his arms before this time; I believe, indeed, that he had
rather a habit of kissing barmaids; and I know, that in one or two
instances, he had been seen by credible witnesses, to hug a landlady in
a very perceptible manner. I mention the circumstance, to show what a
very uncommon sort of person this beautiful young lady must have been,
to have affected my uncle in the way she did; he used to say, that as
her long dark hair trailed over his arm, and her beautiful dark eyes
fixed themselves upon his face when she recovered, he felt so strange
and nervous that his legs trembled beneath him. But who can look in a
sweet, soft pair of dark eyes, without feeling queer? I can't,
gentlemen. I am afraid to look at some eyes I know, and that's the truth
of it.

'"You will never leave me," murmured the young lady.

'"Never," said my uncle. And he meant it too.

'"My dear preserver!" exclaimed the young lady. "My dear, kind, brave
preserver!"

'"Don't," said my uncle, interrupting her.

'"'Why?" inquired the young lady.

'"Because your mouth looks so beautiful when you speak," rejoined my
uncle, "that I'm afraid I shall be rude enough to kiss it."

'The young lady put up her hand as if to caution my uncle not to do so,
and said--No, she didn't say anything--she smiled. When you are looking
at a pair of the most delicious lips in the world, and see them gently
break into a roguish smile--if you are very near them, and nobody else
by--you cannot better testify your admiration of their beautiful form
and colour than by kissing them at once. My uncle did so, and I honour
him for it.

'"Hark!" cried the young lady, starting. "The noise of wheels, and
horses!"

'"So it is," said my uncle, listening. He had a good ear for wheels, and
the trampling of hoofs; but there appeared to be so many horses and
carriages rattling towards them, from a distance, that it was impossible
to form a guess at their number. The sound was like that of fifty
brakes, with six blood cattle in each.

'"We are pursued!" cried the young lady, clasping her hands. "We are
pursued. I have no hope but in you!"

'There was such an expression of terror in her beautiful face, that my
uncle made up his mind at once. He lifted her into the coach, told her
not to be frightened, pressed his lips to hers once more, and then
advising her to draw up the window to keep the cold air out, mounted to
the box.

'"Stay, love," cried the young lady.

'"What's the matter?" said my uncle, from the coach-box.

'"I want to speak to you," said the young lady; "only a word. Only one
word, dearest."

'"Must I get down?" inquired my uncle. The lady made no answer, but she
smiled again. Such a smile, gentlemen! It beat the other one, all to
nothing. My uncle descended from his perch in a twinkling.

'"What is it, my dear?" said my uncle, looking in at the coach window.
The lady happened to bend forward at the same time, and my uncle thought
she looked more beautiful than she had done yet. He was very close to
her just then, gentlemen, so he really ought to know.

'"What is it, my dear?" said my uncle.

'"Will you never love any one but me--never marry any one beside?" said
the young lady.

'My uncle swore a great oath that he never would marry anybody else, and
the young lady drew in her head, and pulled up the window. He jumped
upon the box, squared his elbows, adjusted the ribands, seized the whip
which lay on the roof, gave one flick to the off leader, and away went
the four long-tailed, flowing-maned black horses, at fifteen good
English miles an hour, with the old mail-coach behind them. Whew! How
they tore along!

'The noise behind grew louder. The faster the old mail went, the faster
came the pursuers--men, horses, dogs, were leagued in the pursuit. The
noise was frightful, but, above all, rose the voice of the young lady,
urging my uncle on, and shrieking, "Faster! Faster!"

'They whirled past the dark trees, as feathers would be swept before a
hurricane. Houses, gates, churches, haystacks, objects of every kind
they shot by, with a velocity and noise like roaring waters suddenly let
loose. But still the noise of pursuit grew louder, and still my uncle
could hear the young lady wildly screaming, "Faster! Faster!"

'My uncle plied whip and rein, and the horses flew onward till they were
white with foam; and yet the noise behind increased; and yet the young
lady cried, "Faster! Faster!" My uncle gave a loud stamp on the boot in
the energy of the moment, and--found that it was gray morning, and he
was sitting in the wheelwright's yard, on the box of an old Edinburgh
mail, shivering with the cold and wet and stamping his feet to warm
them! He got down, and looked eagerly inside for the beautiful young
lady. Alas! There was neither door nor seat to the coach. It was a mere
shell.

'Of course, my uncle knew very well that there was some mystery in the
matter, and that everything had passed exactly as he used to relate it.
He remained staunch to the great oath he had sworn to the beautiful
young lady, refusing several eligible landladies on her account, and
dying a bachelor at last. He always said what a curious thing it was
that he should have found out, by such a mere accident as his clambering
over the palings, that the ghosts of mail-coaches and horses, guards,
coachmen, and passengers, were in the habit of making journeys regularly
every night. He used to add, that he believed he was the only living
person who had ever been taken as a passenger on one of these
excursions. And I think he was right, gentlemen--at least I never heard
of any other.'

'I wonder what these ghosts of mail-coaches carry in their bags,' said
the landlord, who had listened to the whole story with profound
attention.

'The dead letters, of course,' said the bagman.

'Oh, ah! To be sure,' rejoined the landlord. 'I never thought of that.'

The horses were put to, punctually at a quarter before nine next
morning, and Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller having each taken his seat, the
one inside and the other out, the postillion was duly directed to repair
in the first instance to Mr. Bob Sawyer's house, for the purpose of
taking up Mr. Benjamin Allen.

It was with feelings of no small astonishment, when the carriage drew up
before the door with the red lamp, and the very legible inscription of
'Sawyer, late Nockemorf,' that Mr. Pickwick saw, on popping his head out
of the coach window, the boy in the gray livery very busily employed in
putting up the shutters--the which, being an unusual and an
unbusinesslike proceeding at that hour of the morning, at once suggested
to his mind two inferences: the one, that some good friend and patient
of Mr. Bob Sawyer's was dead; the other, that Mr. Bob Sawyer himself was
bankrupt.

'What is the matter?' said Mr. Pickwick to the boy.

'Nothing's the matter, Sir,' replied the boy, expanding his mouth to the
whole breadth of his countenance.

'All right, all right!' cried Bob Sawyer, suddenly appearing at the
door, with a small leathern knapsack, limp and dirty, in one hand, and a
rough coat and shawl thrown over the other arm. 'I'm going, old fellow.'

'You!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

'Yes,' replied Bob Sawyer, 'and a regular expedition we'll make of it.
Here, Sam! Look out!' Thus briefly bespeaking Mr. Weller's attention,
Mr. Bob Sawyer jerked the leathern knapsack into the dickey, where it
was immediately stowed away, under the seat, by Sam, who regarded the
proceeding with great admiration. This done, Mr. Bob Sawyer, with the
assistance of the boy, forcibly worked himself into the rough coat,
which was a few sizes too small for him, and then advancing to the coach
window, thrust in his head, and laughed boisterously.

'What a start it is, isn't it?' cried Bob, wiping the tears out of his
eyes, with one of the cuffs of the rough coat.

'My dear Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, with some embarrassment, 'I had no
idea of your accompanying us.'

'No, that's just the very thing,' replied Bob, seizing Mr. Pickwick by
the lappel of his coat. 'That's the joke.'

'Oh, that's the joke, is it?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Of course,' replied Bob. 'It's the whole point of the thing, you know--
that, and leaving the business to take care of itself, as it seems to
have made up its mind not to take care of me.' With this explanation of
the phenomenon of the shutters, Mr. Bob Sawyer pointed to the shop, and
relapsed into an ecstasy of mirth.

'Bless me, you are surely not mad enough to think of leaving your
patients without anybody to attend them!' remonstrated Mr. Pickwick in a
very serious tone.

'Why not?' asked Bob, in reply. 'I shall save by it, you know. None of
them ever pay. Besides,' said Bob, lowering his voice to a confidential
whisper, 'they will be all the better for it; for, being nearly out of
drugs, and not able to increase my account just now, I should have been
obliged to give them calomel all round, and it would have been certain
to have disagreed with some of them. So it's all for the best.'

There was a philosophy and a strength of reasoning about this reply,
which Mr. Pickwick was not prepared for. He paused a few moments, and
added, less firmly than before--

'But this chaise, my young friend, will only hold two; and I am pledged
to Mr. Allen.'

'Don't think of me for a minute,' replied Bob. 'I've arranged it all;
Sam and I will share the dickey between us. Look here. This little bill
is to be wafered on the shop door: "Sawyer, late Nockemorf. Inquire of
Mrs. Cripps over the way." Mrs. Cripps is my boy's mother. "Mr. Sawyer's
very sorry," says Mrs. Cripps, "couldn't help it--fetched away early
this morning to a consultation of the very first surgeons in the
country--couldn't do without him--would have him at any price--
tremendous operation." The fact is,' said Bob, in conclusion, 'it'll do
me more good than otherwise, I expect. If it gets into one of the local
papers, it will be the making of me. Here's Ben; now then, jump in!'

With these hurried words, Mr. Bob Sawyer pushed the postboy on one side,
jerked his friend into the vehicle, slammed the door, put up the steps,
wafered the bill on the street door, locked it, put the key in his
pocket, jumped into the dickey, gave the word for starting, and did the
whole with such extraordinary precipitation, that before Mr. Pickwick
had well begun to consider whether Mr. Bob Sawyer ought to go or not,
they were rolling away, with Mr. Bob Sawyer thoroughly established as
part and parcel of the equipage.

So long as their progress was confined to the streets of Bristol, the
facetious Bob kept his professional green spectacles on, and conducted
himself with becoming steadiness and gravity of demeanour; merely giving
utterance to divers verbal witticisms for the exclusive behoof and
entertainment of Mr. Samuel Weller. But when they emerged on the open
road, he threw off his green spectacles and his gravity together, and
performed a great variety of practical jokes, which were calculated to
attract the attention of the passersby, and to render the carriage and
those it contained objects of more than ordinary curiosity; the least
conspicuous among these feats being a most vociferous imitation of a
key-bugle, and the ostentatious display of a crimson silk pocket-
handkerchief attached to a walking-stick, which was occasionally waved
in the air with various gestures indicative of supremacy and defiance.

'I wonder,' said Mr. Pickwick, stopping in the midst of a most sedate
conversation with Ben Allen, bearing reference to the numerous good
qualities of Mr. Winkle and his sister--'I wonder what all the people we
pass, can see in us to make them stare so.'

'It's a neat turn-out,' replied Ben Allen, with something of pride in
his tone. 'They're not used to see this sort of thing, every day, I dare
say.'

'Possibly,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'It may be so. Perhaps it is.'

Mr. Pickwick might very probably have reasoned himself into the belief
that it really was, had he not, just then happening to look out of the
coach window, observed that the looks of the passengers betokened
anything but respectful astonishment, and that various telegraphic
communications appeared to be passing between them and some persons
outside the vehicle, whereupon it occurred to him that these
demonstrations might be, in some remote degree, referable to the
humorous deportment of Mr. Robert Sawyer.

'I hope,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'that our volatile friend is committing no
absurdities in that dickey behind.'

'Oh dear, no,' replied Ben Allen. 'Except when he's elevated, Bob's the
quietest creature breathing.'

Here a prolonged imitation of a key-bugle broke upon the ear, succeeded
by cheers and screams, all of which evidently proceeded from the throat
and lungs of the quietest creature breathing, or in plainer designation,
of Mr. Bob Sawyer himself.

Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Ben Allen looked expressively at each other, and
the former gentleman taking off his hat, and leaning out of the coach
window until nearly the whole of his waistcoat was outside it, was at
length enabled to catch a glimpse of his facetious friend.

Mr. Bob Sawyer was seated, not in the dickey, but on the roof of the
chaise, with his legs as far asunder as they would conveniently go,
wearing Mr. Samuel Weller's hat on one side of his head, and bearing, in
one hand, a most enormous sandwich, while, in the other, he supported a
goodly-sized case-bottle, to both of which he applied himself with
intense relish, varying the monotony of the occupation by an occasional
howl, or the interchange of some lively badinage with any passing
stranger. The crimson flag was carefully tied in an erect position to
the rail of the dickey; and Mr. Samuel Weller, decorated with Bob
Sawyer's hat, was seated in the centre thereof, discussing a twin
sandwich, with an animated countenance, the expression of which
betokened his entire and perfect approval of the whole arrangement.

This was enough to irritate a gentleman with Mr. Pickwick's sense of
propriety, but it was not the whole extent of the aggravation, for a
stage-coach full, inside and out, was meeting them at the moment, and
the astonishment of the passengers was very palpably evinced. The
congratulations of an Irish family, too, who were keeping up with the
chaise, and begging all the time, were of rather a boisterous
description, especially those of its male head, who appeared to consider
the display as part and parcel of some political or other procession of
triumph.

'Mr. Sawyer!' cried Mr. Pickwick, in a state of great excitement, 'Mr.
Sawyer, Sir!'

'Hollo!' responded that gentleman, looking over the side of the chaise
with all the coolness in life.

'Are you mad, sir?' demanded Mr. Pickwick.

'Not a bit of it,' replied Bob; 'only cheerful.'

'Cheerful, sir!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. 'Take down that scandalous red
handkerchief, I beg. I insist, Sir. Sam, take it down.'

Before Sam could interpose, Mr. Bob Sawyer gracefully struck his
colours, and having put them in his pocket, nodded in a courteous manner
to Mr. Pickwick, wiped the mouth of the case-bottle, and applied it to
his own, thereby informing him, without any unnecessary waste of words,
that he devoted that draught to wishing him all manner of happiness and
prosperity. Having done this, Bob replaced the cork with great care, and
looking benignantly down on Mr. Pickwick, took a large bite out of the
sandwich, and smiled.

'Come,' said Mr. Pickwick, whose momentary anger was not quite proof
against Bob's immovable self-possession, 'pray let us have no more of
this absurdity.'

'No, no,' replied Bob, once more exchanging hats with Mr. Weller; 'I
didn't mean to do it, only I got so enlivened with the ride that I
couldn't help it.'

'Think of the look of the thing,' expostulated Mr. Pickwick; 'have some
regard to appearances.'

'Oh, certainly,' said Bob, 'it's not the sort of thing at all. All over,
governor.'

Satisfied with this assurance, Mr. Pickwick once more drew his head into
the chaise and pulled up the glass; but he had scarcely resumed the
conversation which Mr. Bob Sawyer had interrupted, when he was somewhat
startled by the apparition of a small dark body, of an oblong form, on
the outside of the window, which gave sundry taps against it, as if
impatient of admission.

'What's this?'exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

'It looks like a case-bottle;' remarked Ben Allen, eyeing the object in
question through his spectacles with some interest; 'I rather think it
belongs to Bob.'

The impression was perfectly accurate; for Mr. Bob Sawyer, having
attached the case-bottle to the end of the walking-stick, was battering
the window with it, in token of his wish, that his friends inside would
partake of its contents, in all good-fellowship and harmony.

'What's to be done?' said Mr. Pickwick, looking at the bottle. 'This
proceeding is more absurd than the other.'

'I think it would be best to take it in,' replied Mr. Ben Allen; 'it
would serve him right to take it in and keep it, wouldn't it?'

'It would,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'shall I?'

'I think it the most proper course we could possibly adopt,' replied
Ben.

This advice quite coinciding with his own opinion, Mr. Pickwick gently
let down the window and disengaged the bottle from the stick; upon which
the latter was drawn up, and Mr. Bob Sawyer was heard to laugh heartily.

'What a merry dog it is!' said Mr. Pickwick, looking round at his
companion, with the bottle in his hand.

'He is,' said Mr. Allen.

'You cannot possibly be angry with him,' remarked Mr. Pickwick.

'Quite out of the question,' observed Benjamin Allen.

During this short interchange of sentiments, Mr. Pickwick had, in an
abstracted mood, uncorked the bottle.

'What is it?' inquired Ben Allen carelessly.

'I don't know,' replied Mr. Pickwick, with equal carelessness. 'It
smells, I think, like milk-punch.'

Oh, indeed?' said Ben.

'I _think _so,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick, very properly guarding himself
against the possibility of stating an untruth; 'mind, I could not
undertake to say certainly, without tasting it.'

'You had better do so,' said Ben; 'we may as well know what it is.'

'Do you think so?' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'Well; if you are curious to
know, of course I have no objection.'

Ever willing to sacrifice his own feelings to the wishes of his friend,
Mr. Pickwick at once took a pretty long taste.

'What is it?' inquired Ben Allen, interrupting him with some impatience.

'Curious,' said Mr. Pickwick, smacking his lips, 'I hardly know, now.
Oh, yes!' said Mr. Pickwick, after a second taste. 'It _is_ punch.'

Mr. Ben Allen looked at Mr. Pickwick; Mr. Pickwick looked at Mr. Ben
Allen; Mr. Ben Allen smiled; Mr. Pickwick did not.

'It would serve him right,' said the last-named gentleman, with some
severity--'it would serve him right to drink it every drop.'

'The very thing that occurred to me,' said Ben Allen.

'Is it, indeed?' rejoined Mr. Pickwick. 'Then here's his health!' With
these words, that excellent person took a most energetic pull at the
bottle, and handed it to Ben Allen, who was not slow to imitate his
example. The smiles became mutual, and the milk-punch was gradually and
cheerfully disposed of.

'After all,' said Mr. Pickwick, as he drained the last drop, 'his pranks
are really very amusing; very entertaining indeed.'

'You may say that,' rejoined Mr. Ben Allen. In proof of Bob Sawyer's
being one of the funniest fellows alive, he proceeded to entertain Mr.
Pickwick with a long and circumstantial account how that gentleman once
drank himself into a fever and got his head shaved; the relation of
which pleasant and agreeable history was only stopped by the stoppage of
the chaise at the Bell at Berkeley Heath, to change horses.

'I say! We're going to dine here, aren't we?' said Bob, looking in at
the window.

'Dine!' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Why, we have only come nineteen miles, and
have eighty-seven and a half to go.'

'Just the reason why we should take something to enable us to bear up
against the fatigue,' remonstrated Mr. Bob Sawyer.

'Oh, it's quite impossible to dine at half-past eleven o'clock in the
day,' replied Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch.

'So it is,' rejoined Bob, 'lunch is the very thing. Hollo, you sir!
Lunch for three, directly; and keep the horses back for a quarter of an
hour. Tell them to put everything they have cold, on the table, and some
bottled ale, and let us taste your very best Madeira.' Issuing these
orders with monstrous importance and bustle, Mr. Bob Sawyer at once
hurried into the house to superintend the arrangements; in less than
five minutes he returned and declared them to be excellent.

The quality of the lunch fully justified the eulogium which Bob had
pronounced, and very great justice was done to it, not only by that
gentleman, but Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Pickwick also. Under the auspices
of the three, the bottled ale and the Madeira were promptly disposed of;
and when (the horses being once more put to) they resumed their seats,
with the case-bottle full of the best substitute for milk-punch that
could be procured on so short a notice, the key-bugle sounded, and the
red flag waved, without the slightest opposition on Mr. Pickwick's part.

At the Hop Pole at Tewkesbury, they stopped to dine; upon which occasion
there was more bottled ale, with some more Madeira, and some port
besides; and here the case-bottle was replenished for the fourth time.
Under the influence of these combined stimulants, Mr. Pickwick and Mr.
Ben Allen fell fast asleep for thirty miles, while Bob and Mr. Weller
sang duets in the dickey.

It was quite dark when Mr. Pickwick roused himself sufficiently to look
out of the window. The straggling cottages by the road-side, the dingy
hue of every object visible, the murky atmosphere, the paths of cinders
and brick-dust, the deep-red glow of furnace fires in the distance, the
volumes of dense smoke issuing heavily forth from high toppling
chimneys, blackening and obscuring everything around; the glare of
distant lights, the ponderous wagons which toiled along the road, laden
with clashing rods of iron, or piled with heavy goods--all betokened
their rapid approach to the great working town of Birmingham.

As they rattled through the narrow thoroughfares leading to the heart of
the turmoil, the sights and sounds of earnest occupation struck more
forcibly on the senses. The streets were thronged with working people.
The hum of labour resounded from every house; lights gleamed from the
long casement windows in the attic storeys, and the whirl of wheels and
noise of machinery shook the trembling walls. The fires, whose lurid,
sullen light had been visible for miles, blazed fiercely up, in the
great works and factories of the town. The din of hammers, the rushing
of steam, and the dead heavy clanking of engines, was the harsh music
which arose from every quarter.

The postboy was driving briskly through the open streets, and past the
handsome and well-lighted shops that intervene between the outskirts of
the town and the Old Royal Hotel, before Mr. Pickwick had begun to
consider the very difficult and delicate nature of the commission which
had carried him thither.

The delicate nature of this commission, and the difficulty of executing
it in a satisfactory manner, were by no means lessened by the voluntary
companionship of Mr. Bob Sawyer. Truth to tell, Mr. Pickwick felt that
his presence on the occasion, however considerate and gratifying, was by
no means an honour he would willingly have sought; in fact, he would
cheerfully have given a reasonable sum of money to have had Mr. Bob
Sawyer removed to any place at not less than fifty miles' distance,
without delay.

Mr. Pickwick had never held any personal communication with Mr. Winkle,
senior, although he had once or twice corresponded with him by letter,
and returned satisfactory answers to his inquiries concerning the moral
character and behaviour of his son; he felt nervously sensible that to
wait upon him, for the first time, attended by Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen,
both slightly fuddled, was not the most ingenious and likely means that
could have been hit upon to prepossess him in his favour.

'However,' said Mr. Pickwick, endeavouring to reassure himself, 'I must
do the best I can. I must see him to-night, for I faithfully promised to
do so. If they persist in accompanying me, I must make the interview as
brief as possible, and be content that, for their own sakes, they will
not expose themselves.'

As he comforted himself with these reflections, the chaise stopped at
the door of the Old Royal. Ben Allen having been partially awakened from
a stupendous sleep, and dragged out by the collar by Mr. Samuel Weller,
Mr. Pickwick was enabled to alight. They were shown to a comfortable
apartment, and Mr. Pickwick at once propounded a question to the waiter
concerning the whereabout of Mr. Winkle's residence.

'Close by, Sir,' said the waiter, 'not above five hundred yards, Sir.
Mr. Winkle is a wharfinger, Sir, at the canal, sir. Private residence is
not--oh dear, no, sir, not five hundred yards, sir.' Here the waiter
blew a candle out, and made a feint of lighting it again, in order to
afford Mr. Pickwick an opportunity of asking any further questions, if
he felt so disposed.

'Take anything now, Sir?' said the waiter, lighting the candle in
desperation at Mr. Pickwick's silence. 'Tea or coffee, Sir? Dinner,
sir?'

'Nothing now.'

'Very good, sir. Like to order supper, Sir?'

'Not just now.'

'Very good, Sir.' Here, he walked slowly to the door, and then stopping
short, turned round and said, with great suavity--

'Shall I send the chambermaid, gentlemen?'

'You may if you please,' replied Mr. Pickwick.

'If _you _please, sir.'

'And bring some soda-water,' said Bob Sawyer.

'Soda-water, Sir! Yes, Sir.' With his mind apparently relieved from an
overwhelming weight, by having at last got an order for something, the
waiter imperceptibly melted away. Waiters never walk or run. They have a
peculiar and mysterious power of skimming out of rooms, which other
mortals possess not.

Some slight symptoms of vitality having been awakened in Mr. Ben Allen
by the soda-water, he suffered himself to be prevailed upon to wash his
face and hands, and to submit to be brushed by Sam. Mr. Pickwick and Bob
Sawyer having also repaired the disorder which the journey had made in
their apparel, the three started forth, arm in arm, to Mr. Winkle's; Bob
Sawyer impregnating the atmosphere with tobacco smoke as he walked
along.

About a quarter of a mile off, in a quiet, substantial-looking street,
stood an old red brick house with three steps before the door, and a
brass plate upon it, bearing, in fat Roman capitals, the words, 'Mr.
Winkle.' The steps were very white, and the bricks were very red, and
the house was very clean; and here stood Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Benjamin
Allen, and Mr. Bob Sawyer, as the clock struck ten.

A smart servant-girl answered the knock, and started on beholding the
three strangers.

'Is Mr. Winkle at home, my dear?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'He is just going to supper, Sir,' replied the girl.

'Give him that card if you please,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick. 'Say I am
sorry to trouble him at so late an hour; but I am anxious to see him to-
night, and have only just arrived.'

The girl looked timidly at Mr. Bob Sawyer, who was expressing his
admiration of her personal charms by a variety of wonderful grimaces;
and casting an eye at the hats and greatcoats which hung in the passage,
called another girl to mind the door while she went upstairs. The
sentinel was speedily relieved; for the girl returned immediately, and
begging pardon of the gentlemen for leaving them in the street, ushered
them into a floor-clothed back parlour, half office and half dressing
room, in which the principal useful and ornamental articles of furniture
were a desk, a wash-hand stand and shaving-glass, a boot-rack and boot-
jack, a high stool, four chairs, a table, and an old eight-day clock.
Over the mantelpiece were the sunken doors of an iron safe, while a
couple of hanging shelves for books, an almanac, and several files of
dusty papers, decorated the walls.

'Very sorry to leave you standing at the door, Sir,' said the girl,
lighting a lamp, and addressing Mr. Pickwick with a winning smile, 'but
you was quite strangers to me; and we have such a many trampers that
only come to see what they can lay their hands on, that really--'

'There is not the least occasion for any apology, my dear,' said Mr.
Pickwick good-humouredly.

'Not the slightest, my love,' said Bob Sawyer, playfully stretching
forth his arms, and skipping from side to side, as if to prevent the
young lady's leaving the room.

The young lady was not at all softened by these allurements, for she at
once expressed her opinion, that Mr. Bob Sawyer was an 'odous creetur;'
and, on his becoming rather more pressing in his attentions, imprinted
her fair fingers upon his face, and bounced out of the room with many
expressions of aversion and contempt.

Deprived of the young lady's society, Mr. Bob Sawyer proceeded to divert
himself by peeping into the desk, looking into all the table drawers,
feigning to pick the lock of the iron safe, turning the almanac with its
face to the wall, trying on the boots of Mr. Winkle, senior, over his
own, and making several other humorous experiments upon the furniture,
all of which afforded Mr. Pickwick unspeakable horror and agony, and
yielded Mr. Bob Sawyer proportionate delight.

At length the door opened, and a little old gentleman in a snuff-
coloured suit, with a head and face the precise counterpart of those
belonging to Mr. Winkle, junior, excepting that he was rather bald,
trotted into the room with Mr. Pickwick's card in one hand, and a silver
candlestick in the other.

'Mr. Pickwick, sir, how do you do?' said Winkle the elder, putting down
the candlestick and proffering his hand. 'Hope I see you well, sir. Glad
to see you. Be seated, Mr. Pickwick, I beg, Sir. This gentleman is--'

'My friend, Mr. Sawyer,' interposed Mr. Pickwick, 'your son's friend.'

'Oh,' said Mr. Winkle the elder, looking rather grimly at Bob. 'I hope
you are well, sir.'

'Right as a trivet, sir,' replied Bob Sawyer.

'This other gentleman,' cried Mr. Pickwick, 'is, as you will see when
you have read the letter with which I am intrusted, a very near
relative, or I should rather say a very particular friend of your son's.
His name is Allen.'

'_That _gentleman?' inquired Mr. Winkle, pointing with the card towards
Ben Allen, who had fallen asleep in an attitude which left nothing of
him visible but his spine and his coat collar.

Mr. Pickwick was on the point of replying to the question, and reciting
Mr. Benjamin Allen's name and honourable distinctions at full length,
when the sprightly Mr. Bob Sawyer, with a view of rousing his friend to
a sense of his situation, inflicted a startling pinch upon the fleshly
part of his arm, which caused him to jump up with a shriek. Suddenly
aware that he was in the presence of a stranger, Mr. Ben Allen advanced
and, shaking Mr. Winkle most affectionately by both hands for about five
minutes, murmured, in some half-intelligible fragments of sentences, the
great delight he felt in seeing him, and a hospitable inquiry whether he
felt disposed to take anything after his walk, or would prefer waiting
'till dinner-time;' which done, he sat down and gazed about him with a
petrified stare, as if he had not the remotest idea where he was, which
indeed he had not.

All this was most embarrassing to Mr. Pickwick, the more especially as
Mr. Winkle, senior, evinced palpable astonishment at the eccentric--not
to say extraordinary--behaviour of his two companions. To bring the
matter to an issue at once, he drew a letter from his pocket, and
presenting it to Mr. Winkle, senior, said--

'This letter, Sir, is from your son. You will see, by its contents, that
on your favourable and fatherly consideration of it, depend his future
happiness and welfare. Will you oblige me by giving it the calmest and
coolest perusal, and by discussing the subject afterwards with me, in
the tone and spirit in which alone it ought to be discussed? You may
judge of the importance of your decision to your son, and his intense
anxiety upon the subject, by my waiting upon you, without any previous
warning, at so late an hour; and,' added Mr. Pickwick, glancing slightly
at his two companions--'and under such unfavourable circumstances.'

With this prelude, Mr. Pickwick placed four closely-written sides of
extra superfine wire-wove penitence in the hands of the astounded Mr.
Winkle, senior. Then reseating himself in his chair, he watched his
looks and manner: anxiously, it is true, but with the open front of a
gentleman who feels he has taken no part which he need excuse or
palliate.

The old wharfinger turned the letter over, looked at the front, back,
and sides, made a microscopic examination of the fat little boy on the
seal, raised his eyes to Mr. Pickwick's face, and then, seating himself
on the high stool, and drawing the lamp closer to him, broke the wax,
unfolded the epistle, and lifting it to the light, prepared to read.

Just at this moment, Mr. Bob Sawyer, whose wit had lain dormant for some
minutes, placed his hands on his knees, and made a face after the
portraits of the late Mr. Grimaldi, as clown. It so happened that Mr.
Winkle, senior, instead of being deeply engaged in reading the letter,
as Mr. Bob Sawyer thought, chanced to be looking over the top of it at
no less a person than Mr. Bob Sawyer himself; rightly conjecturing that
the face aforesaid was made in ridicule and derision of his own person,
he fixed his eyes on Bob with such expressive sternness, that the late
Mr. Grimaldi's lineaments gradually resolved themselves into a very fine
expression of humility and confusion.

'Did you speak, Sir?' inquired Mr. Winkle, senior, after an awful
silence.

'No, sir,' replied Bob, With no remains of the clown about him, save and
except the extreme redness of his cheeks.

'You are sure you did not, sir?' said Mr. Winkle, senior.

'Oh dear, yes, sir, quite,' replied Bob.

'I thought you did, Sir,' replied the old gentleman, with indignant
emphasis. 'Perhaps you _looked _at me, sir?'

'Oh, no! sir, not at all,' replied Bob, with extreme civility.

'I am very glad to hear it, sir,' said Mr. Winkle, senior. Having
frowned upon the abashed Bob with great magnificence, the old gentleman
again brought the letter to the light, and began to read it seriously.

Mr. Pickwick eyed him intently as he turned from the bottom line of the
first page to the top line of the second, and from the bottom of the
second to the top of the third, and from the bottom of the third to the
top of the fourth; but not the slightest alteration of countenance
afforded a clue to the feelings with which he received the announcement
of his son's marriage, which Mr. Pickwick knew was in the very first
half-dozen lines.

He read the letter to the last word, folded it again with all the
carefulness and precision of a man of business, and, just when Mr.
Pickwick expected some great outbreak of feeling, dipped a pen in the
ink-stand, and said, as quietly as if he were speaking on the most
ordinary counting-house topic--

'What is Nathaniel's address, Mr. Pickwick?'

'The George and Vulture, at present,' replied that gentleman.

'George and Vulture. Where is that?'

'George Yard, Lombard Street.'

'In the city?'

'Yes.'

The old gentleman methodically indorsed the address on the back of the
letter; and then, placing it in the desk, which he locked, said, as he
got off the stool and put the bunch of keys in his pocket--

'I suppose there is nothing else which need detain us, Mr. Pickwick?'

'Nothing else, my dear Sir!' observed that warm-hearted person in
indignant amazement. 'Nothing else! Have you no opinion to express on
this momentous event in our young friend's life? No assurance to convey
to him, through me, of the continuance of your affection and protection?
Nothing to say which will cheer and sustain him, and the anxious girl
who looks to him for comfort and support? My dear Sir, consider.'

'I will consider,' replied the old gentleman. 'I have nothing to say
just now. I am a man of business, Mr. Pickwick. I never commit myself
hastily in any affair, and from what I see of this, I by no means like
the appearance of it. A thousand pounds is not much, Mr. Pickwick.'

'You're very right, Sir,' interposed Ben Allen, just awake enough to
know that he had spent his thousand pounds without the smallest
difficulty. 'You're an intelligent man. Bob, he's a very knowing fellow
this.'

'I am very happy to find that you do me the justice to make the
admission, sir,' said Mr. Winkle, senior, looking contemptuously at Ben
Allen, who was shaking his head profoundly. 'The fact is, Mr. Pickwick,
that when I gave my son a roving license for a year or so, to see
something of men and manners (which he has done under your auspices), so
that he might not enter life a mere boarding-school milk-sop to be
gulled by everybody, I never bargained for this. He knows that very
well, so if I withdraw my countenance from him on this account, he has
no call to be surprised. He shall hear from me, Mr. Pickwick. Good-
night, sir.--Margaret, open the door.'

All this time, Bob Sawyer had been nudging Mr. Ben Allen to say
something on the right side; Ben accordingly now burst, without the
slightest preliminary notice, into a brief but impassioned piece of
eloquence.

'Sir,' said Mr. Ben Allen, staring at the old gentleman, out of a pair
of very dim and languid eyes, and working his right arm vehemently up
and down, 'you--you ought to be ashamed of yourself.'

'As the lady's brother, of course you are an excellent judge of the
question,' retorted Mr. Winkle, senior. 'There; that's enough. Pray say
no more, Mr. Pickwick. Good-night, gentlemen!'

With these words the old gentleman took up the candle-stick and opening
the room door, politely motioned towards the passage.

'You will regret this, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, setting his teeth close
together to keep down his choler; for he felt how important the effect
might prove to his young friend.

'I am at present of a different opinion,' calmly replied Mr. Winkle,
senior. 'Once again, gentlemen, I wish you a good-night.'

Mr. Pickwick walked with angry strides into the street. Mr. Bob Sawyer,
completely quelled by the decision of the old gentleman's manner, took
the same course. Mr. Ben Allen's hat rolled down the steps immediately
afterwards, and Mr. Ben Allen's body followed it directly. The whole
party went silent and supperless to bed; and Mr. Pickwick thought, just
before he fell asleep, that if he had known Mr. Winkle, senior, had been
quite so much of a man of business, it was extremely probable he might
never have waited upon him, on such an errand.

The morning which broke upon Mr. Pickwick's sight at eight o'clock, was
not at all calculated to elevate his spirits, or to lessen the
depression which the unlooked-for result of his embassy inspired. The
sky was dark and gloomy, the air was damp and raw, the streets were wet
and sloppy. The smoke hung sluggishly above the chimney-tops as if it
lacked the courage to rise, and the rain came slowly and doggedly down,
as if it had not even the spirit to pour. A game-cock in the stableyard,
deprived of every spark of his accustomed animation, balanced himself
dismally on one leg in a corner; a donkey, moping with drooping head
under the narrow roof of an outhouse, appeared from his meditative and
miserable countenance to be contemplating suicide. In the street,
umbrellas were the only things to be seen, and the clicking of pattens
and splashing of rain-drops were the only sounds to be heard.

The breakfast was interrupted by very little conversation; even Mr. Bob
Sawyer felt the influence of the weather, and the previous day's
excitement. In his own expressive language he was 'floored.' So was Mr.
Ben Allen. So was Mr. Pickwick.

In protracted expectation of the weather clearing up, the last evening
paper from London was read and re-read with an intensity of interest
only known in cases of extreme destitution; every inch of the carpet was
walked over with similar perseverance; the windows were looked out of,
often enough to justify the imposition of an additional duty upon them;
all kinds of topics of conversation were started, and failed; and at
length Mr. Pickwick, when noon had arrived, without a change for the
better, rang the bell resolutely, and ordered out the chaise.

Although the roads were miry, and the drizzling rain came down harder
than it had done yet, and although the mud and wet splashed in at the
open windows of the carriage to such an extent that the discomfort was
almost as great to the pair of insides as to the pair of outsides, still
there was something in the motion, and the sense of being up and doing,
which was so infinitely superior to being pent in a dull room, looking
at the dull rain dripping into a dull street, that they all agreed, on
starting, that the change was a great improvement, and wondered how they
could possibly have delayed making it as long as they had done.

When they stopped to change at Coventry, the steam ascended from the
horses in such clouds as wholly to obscure the hostler, whose voice was
however heard to declare from the mist, that he expected the first gold
medal from the Humane Society on their next distribution of rewards, for
taking the postboy's hat off; the water descending from the brim of
which, the invisible gentleman declared, must have drowned him (the
postboy), but for his great presence of mind in tearing it promptly from
his head, and drying the gasping man's countenance with a wisp of straw.

'This is pleasant,' said Bob Sawyer, turning up his coat collar, and
pulling the shawl over his mouth to concentrate the fumes of a glass of
brandy just swallowed.

'Wery,' replied Sam composedly.

'You don't seem to mind it,' observed Bob.

'Vy, I don't exactly see no good my mindin' on it 'ud do, sir,' replied
Sam.

'That's an unanswerable reason, anyhow,' said Bob.

'Yes, sir,' rejoined Mr. Weller. 'Wotever is, is right, as the young
nobleman sweetly remarked wen they put him down in the pension list 'cos
his mother's uncle's vife's grandfather vunce lit the king's pipe vith a
portable tinder-box.'

Not a bad notion that, Sam,' said Mr. Bob Sawyer approvingly.

'Just wot the young nobleman said ev'ry quarter-day arterwards for the
rest of his life,' replied Mr. Weller.

'Wos you ever called in,' inquired Sam, glancing at the driver, after a
short silence, and lowering his voice to a mysterious whisper--'wos you
ever called in, when you wos 'prentice to a sawbones, to wisit a
postboy.'

'I don't remember that I ever was,' replied Bob Sawyer.

'You never see a postboy in that 'ere hospital as you _walked _(as they
says o' the ghosts), did you?' demanded Sam.

'No,' replied Bob Sawyer. 'I don't think I ever did.'

'Never know'd a churchyard were there wos a postboy's tombstone, or see
a dead postboy, did you?' inquired Sam, pursuing his catechism.

'No,' rejoined Bob, 'I never did.'

'No!' rejoined Sam triumphantly. 'Nor never vill; and there's another
thing that no man never see, and that's a dead donkey. No man never see
a dead donkey 'cept the gen'l'm'n in the black silk smalls as know'd the
young 'ooman as kep' a goat; and that wos a French donkey, so wery
likely he warn't wun o' the reg'lar breed.'

'Well, what has that got to do with the postboys?' asked Bob Sawyer.

'This here,' replied Sam. 'Without goin' so far as to as-sert, as some
wery sensible people do, that postboys and donkeys is both immortal, wot
I say is this: that wenever they feels theirselves gettin' stiff and
past their work, they just rides off together, wun postboy to a pair in
the usual way; wot becomes on 'em nobody knows, but it's wery probable
as they starts avay to take their pleasure in some other vorld, for
there ain't a man alive as ever see either a donkey or a postboy a-
takin' his pleasure in this!'

Expatiating upon this learned and remarkable theory, and citing many
curious statistical and other facts in its support, Sam Weller beguiled
the time until they reached Dunchurch, where a dry postboy and fresh
horses were procured; the next stage was Daventry, and the next
Towcester; and at the end of each stage it rained harder than it had
done at the beginning.

'I say,' remonstrated Bob Sawyer, looking in at the coach window, as
they pulled up before the door of the Saracen's Head, Towcester, 'this
won't do, you know.'

'Bless me!' said Mr. Pickwick, just awakening from a nap, 'I'm afraid
you're wet.'

'Oh, you are, are you?' returned Bob. 'Yes, I am, a little that way,
Uncomfortably damp, perhaps.'

Bob did look dampish, inasmuch as the rain was streaming from his neck,
elbows, cuffs, skirts, and knees; and his whole apparel shone so with
the wet, that it might have been mistaken for a full suit of prepared
oilskin.

'I _am_ rather wet,' said Bob, giving himself a shake and casting a
little hydraulic shower around, like a Newfoundland dog just emerged
from the water.

'I think it's quite impossible to go on to-night,' interposed Ben.

'Out of the question, sir,' remarked Sam Weller, coming to assist in the
conference; 'it's a cruelty to animals, sir, to ask 'em to do it.
There's beds here, sir,' said Sam, addressing his master, 'everything
clean and comfortable. Wery good little dinner, sir, they can get ready
in half an hour--pair of fowls, sir, and a weal cutlet; French beans,
'taturs, tart, and tidiness. You'd better stop vere you are, sir, if I
might recommend. Take adwice, sir, as the doctor said.'

The host of the Saracen's Head opportunely appeared at this moment, to
confirm Mr. Weller's statement relative to the accommodations of the
establishment, and to back his entreaties with a variety of dismal
conjectures regarding the state of the roads, the doubt of fresh horses
being to be had at the next stage, the dead certainty of its raining all
night, the equally mortal certainty of its clearing up in the morning,
and other topics of inducement familiar to innkeepers.

'Well,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'but I must send a letter to London by some
conveyance, so that it may be delivered the very first thing in the
morning, or I must go forwards at all hazards.'

The landlord smiled his delight. Nothing could be easier than for the
gentleman to inclose a letter in a sheet of brown paper, and send it on,
either by the mail or the night coach from Birmingham. If the gentleman
were particularly anxious to have it left as soon as possible, he might
write outside, 'To be delivered immediately,' which was sure to be
attended to; or 'Pay the bearer half-a-crown extra for instant
delivery,' which was surer still.

'Very well,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'then we will stop here.'

'Lights in the Sun, John; make up the fire; the gentlemen are wet!'
cried the landlord. 'This way, gentlemen; don't trouble yourselves about
the postboy now, sir. I'll send him to you when you ring for him, sir.
Now, John, the candles.'

The candles were brought, the fire was stirred up, and a fresh log of
wood thrown on. In ten minutes' time, a waiter was laying the cloth for
dinner, the curtains were drawn, the fire was blazing brightly, and
everything looked (as everything always does, in all decent English
inns) as if the travellers had been expected, and their comforts
prepared, for days beforehand.

Mr. Pickwick sat down at a side table, and hastily indited a note to Mr.
Winkle, merely informing him that he was detained by stress of weather,
but would certainly be in London next day; until when he deferred any
account of his proceedings. This note was hastily made into a parcel,
and despatched to the bar per Mr. Samuel Weller.

Sam left it with the landlady, and was returning to pull his master's
boots off, after drying himself by the kitchen fire, when glancing
casually through a half-opened door, he was arrested by the sight of a
gentleman with a sandy head who had a large bundle of newspapers lying
on the table before him, and was perusing the leading article of one
with a settled sneer which curled up his nose and all other features
into a majestic expression of haughty contempt.

'Hollo!' said Sam, 'I ought to know that 'ere head and them features;
the eyeglass, too, and the broad-brimmed tile! Eatansvill to vit, or I'm
a Roman.'

Sam was taken with a troublesome cough, at once, for the purpose of
attracting the gentleman's attention; the gentleman starting at the
sound, raised his head and his eyeglass, and disclosed to view the
profound and thoughtful features of Mr. Pott, of the Eatanswill
_Gazette_.

'Beggin' your pardon, sir,' said Sam, advancing with a bow, 'my master's
here, Mr. Pott.'

'Hush! hush!' cried Pott, drawing Sam into the room, and closing the
door, with a countenance of mysterious dread and apprehension.

'Wot's the matter, Sir?' inquired Sam, looking vacantly about him.

'Not a whisper of my name,' replied Pott; 'this is a buff neighbourhood.
If the excited and irritable populace knew I was here, I should be torn
to pieces.'

'No! Vould you, sir?' inquired Sam.

'I should be the victim of their fury,' replied Pott. 'Now young man,
what of your master?'

'He's a-stopping here to-night on his vay to town, with a couple of
friends,' replied Sam.

'Is Mr. Winkle one of them?' inquired Pott, with a slight frown.

'No, Sir. Mr. Vinkle stops at home now,' rejoined Sam. 'He's married.'

'Married!' exclaimed Pott, with frightful vehemence. He stopped, smiled
darkly, and added, in a low, vindictive tone, 'It serves him right!'

Having given vent to this cruel ebullition of deadly malice and cold-
blooded triumph over a fallen enemy, Mr. Pott inquired whether Mr.
Pickwick's friends were 'blue?' Receiving a most satisfactory answer in
the affirmative from Sam, who knew as much about the matter as Pott
himself, he consented to accompany him to Mr. Pickwick's room, where a
hearty welcome awaited him, and an agreement to club their dinners
together was at once made and ratified.

'And how are matters going on in Eatanswill?' inquired Mr. Pickwick,
when Pott had taken a seat near the fire, and the whole party had got
their wet boots off, and dry slippers on. 'Is the _Independent_ still in
being?'

'The _Independent_, sir,' replied Pott, 'is still dragging on a wretched
and lingering career. Abhorred and despised by even the few who are
cognisant of its miserable and disgraceful existence, stifled by the
very filth it so profusely scatters, rendered deaf and blind by the
exhalations of its own slime, the obscene journal, happily unconscious
of its degraded state, is rapidly sinking beneath that treacherous mud
which, while it seems to give it a firm standing with the low and
debased classes of society, is nevertheless rising above its detested
head, and will speedily engulf it for ever.'

Having delivered this manifesto (which formed a portion of his last
week's leader) with vehement articulation, the editor paused to take
breath, and looked majestically at Bob Sawyer.

'You are a young man, sir,' said Pott.

Mr. Bob Sawyer nodded.

'So are you, sir,' said Pott, addressing Mr. Ben Allen.

Ben admitted the soft impeachment.

'And are both deeply imbued with those blue principles, which, so long
as I live, I have pledged myself to the people of these kingdoms to
support and to maintain?' suggested Pott.

'Why, I don't exactly know about that,' replied Bob Sawyer. 'I am--'

'Not buff, Mr. Pickwick,' interrupted Pott, drawing back his chair,
'your friend is not buff, sir?'

'No, no,' rejoined Bob, 'I'm a kind of plaid at present; a compound of
all sorts of colours.'

'A waverer,' said Pott solemnly, 'a waverer. I should like to show you a
series of eight articles, Sir, that have appeared in the Eatanswill
_Gazette_. I think I may venture to say that you would not be long in
establishing your opinions on a firm and solid blue basis, sir.'

I dare say I should turn very blue, long before I got to the end of
them,' responded Bob.

Mr. Pott looked dubiously at Bob Sawyer for some seconds, and, turning
to Mr. Pickwick, said--

'You have seen the literary articles which have appeared at intervals in
the Eatanswill _Gazette_ in the course of the last three months, and
which have excited such general--I may say such universal--attention and
admiration?'

'Why,' replied Mr. Pickwick, slightly embarrassed by the question, 'the
fact is, I have been so much engaged in other ways, that I really have
not had an opportunity of perusing them.'

'You should do so, Sir,' said Pott, with a severe countenance.

'I will,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'They appeared in the form of a copious review of a work on Chinese
metaphysics, Sir,' said Pott.

'Oh,' observed Mr. Pickwick; 'from your pen, I hope?'

'From the pen of my critic, Sir,' rejoined Pott, with dignity.

'An abstruse subject, I should conceive,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Very, Sir,' responded Pott, looking intensely sage. 'He _crammed _for
it, to use a technical but expressive term; he read up for the subject,
at my desire, in the "Encyclopaedia Britannica."'

'Indeed!' said Mr. Pickwick; 'I was not aware that that valuable work
contained any information respecting Chinese metaphysics.'

'He read, Sir,' rejoined Pott, laying his hand on Mr. Pickwick's knee,
and looking round with a smile of intellectual superiority--'he read for
metaphysics under the letter M, and for China under the letter C, and
combined his information, Sir!'

Mr. Pott's features assumed so much additional grandeur at the
recollection of the power and research displayed in the learned
effusions in question, that some minutes elapsed before Mr. Pickwick
felt emboldened to renew the conversation; at length, as the editor's
countenance gradually relaxed into its customary expression of moral
supremacy, he ventured to resume the discourse by asking--

'Is it fair to inquire what great object has brought you so far from
home?'

'That object which actuates and animates me in all my gigantic labours,
Sir,' replied Pott, with a calm smile: 'my country's good.'

I supposed it was some public mission,' observed Mr. Pickwick.

'Yes, Sir,' resumed Pott, 'it is.' Here, bending towards Mr. Pickwick,
he whispered in a deep, hollow voice, 'A Buff ball, Sir, will take place
in Birmingham to-morrow evening.'

'God bless me!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

'Yes, Sir, and supper,' added Pott.

'You don't say so!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick.

Pott nodded portentously.

Now, although Mr. Pickwick feigned to stand aghast at this disclosure,
he was so little versed in local politics that he was unable to form an
adequate comprehension of the importance of the dire conspiracy it
referred to; observing which, Mr. Pott, drawing forth the last number of
the Eatanswill _Gazette_, and referring to the same, delivered himself
of the following paragraph:--

HOLE-AND-CORNER BUFFERY.

'A reptile contemporary has recently sweltered forth his black venom in
the vain and hopeless attempt of sullying the fair name of our
distinguished and excellent representative, the Honourable Mr. Slumkey--
that Slumkey whom we, long before he gained his present noble and
exalted position, predicted would one day be, as he now is, at once his
country's brightest honour, and her proudest boast: alike her bold
defender and her honest pride--our reptile contemporary, we say, has
made himself merry, at the expense of a superbly embossed plated coal-
scuttle, which has been presented to that glorious man by his enraptured
constituents, and towards the purchase of which, the nameless wretch
insinuates, the Honourable Mr. Slumkey himself contributed, through a
confidential friend of his butler's, more than three-fourths of the
whole sum subscribed. Why, does not the crawling creature see, that even
if this be the fact, the Honourable Mr. Slumkey only appears in a still
more amiable and radiant light than before, if that be possible? Does
not even his obtuseness perceive that this amiable and touching desire
to carry out the wishes of the constituent body, must for ever endear
him to the hearts and souls of such of his fellow townsmen as are not
worse than swine; or, in other words, who are not as debased as our
contemporary himself? But such is the wretched trickery of hole-and-
corner Buffery! These are not its only artifices. Treason is abroad. We
boldly state, now that we are goaded to the disclosure, and we throw
ourselves on the country and its constables for protection--we boldly
state that secret preparations are at this moment in progress for a Buff
ball; which is to be held in a Buff town, in the very heart and centre
of a Buff population; which is to be conducted by a Buff master of the
ceremonies; which is to be attended by four ultra Buff members of
Parliament, and the admission to which, is to be by Buff tickets! Does
our fiendish contemporary wince? Let him writhe, in impotent malice, as
we pen the words, _We will be there_.'

'There, Sir,' said Pott, folding up the paper quite exhausted, 'that is
the state of the case!'

The landlord and waiter entering at the moment with dinner, caused Mr.
Pott to lay his finger on his lips, in token that he considered his life
in Mr. Pickwick's hands, and depended on his secrecy. Messrs. Bob Sawyer
and Benjamin Allen, who had irreverently fallen asleep during the
reading of the quotation from the Eatanswill _Gazette_, and the
discussion which followed it, were roused by the mere whispering of the
talismanic word 'Dinner' in their ears; and to dinner they went with
good digestion waiting on appetite, and health on both, and a waiter on
all three.

In the course of the dinner and the sitting which succeeded it, Mr. Pott
descending, for a few moments, to domestic topics, informed Mr. Pickwick
that the air of Eatanswill not agreeing with his lady, she was then
engaged in making a tour of different fashionable watering-places with a
view to the recovery of her wonted health and spirits; this was a
delicate veiling of the fact that Mrs. Pott, acting upon her often-
repeated threat of separation, had, in virtue of an arrangement
negotiated by her brother, the lieutenant, and concluded by Mr. Pott,
permanently retired with the faithful bodyguard upon one moiety or half
part of the annual income and profits arising from the editorship and
sale of the Eatanswill _Gazette_.

While the great Mr. Pott was dwelling upon this and other matters,
enlivening the conversation from time to time with various extracts from
his own lucubrations, a stern stranger, calling from the window of a
stage-coach, outward bound, which halted at the inn to deliver packages,
requested to know whether if he stopped short on his journey and
remained there for the night, he could be furnished with the necessary
accommodation of a bed and bedstead.

'Certainly, sir,' replied the landlord.

'I can, can I?' inquired the stranger, who seemed habitually suspicious
in look and manner.

'No doubt of it, Sir,' replied the landlord.

'Good,' said the stranger. 'Coachman, I get down here. Guard, my carpet-
bag!'

Bidding the other passengers good-night, in a rather snappish manner,
the stranger alighted. He was a shortish gentleman, with very stiff
black hair cut in the porcupine or blacking-brush style, and standing
stiff and straight all over his head; his aspect was pompous and
threatening; his manner was peremptory; his eyes were sharp and
restless; and his whole bearing bespoke a feeling of great confidence in
himself, and a consciousness of immeasurable superiority over all other
people.

This gentleman was shown into the room originally assigned to the
patriotic Mr. Pott; and the waiter remarked, in dumb astonishment at the
singular coincidence, that he had no sooner lighted the candles than the
gentleman, diving into his hat, drew forth a newspaper, and began to
read it with the very same expression of indignant scorn, which, upon
the majestic features of Pott, had paralysed his energies an hour
before. The man observed too, that, whereas Mr. Pott's scorn had been
roused by a newspaper headed the Eatanswill _Independent_, this
gentleman's withering contempt was awakened by a newspaper entitled the
Eatanswill _Gazette_.

'Send the landlord,' said the stranger.

'Yes, sir,' rejoined the waiter.

The landlord was sent, and came.

'Are you the landlord?' inquired the gentleman.

'I am sir,' replied the landlord.

'Do you know me?' demanded the gentleman.

'I have not had that pleasure, Sir,' rejoined the landlord.

'My name is Slurk,' said the gentleman.

The landlord slightly inclined his head.

'Slurk, sir,' repeated the gentleman haughtily. 'Do you know me now,
man?'

The landlord scratched his head, looked at the ceiling, and at the
stranger, and smiled feebly.

'Do you know me, man?' inquired the stranger angrily.

The landlord made a strong effort, and at length replied, 'Well, Sir, I
do _not_ know you.'

'Great Heaven!' said the stranger, dashing his clenched fist upon the
table. 'And this is popularity!'

The landlord took a step or two towards the door; the stranger fixing
his eyes upon him, resumed.

'This,' said the stranger--'this is gratitude for years of labour and
study in behalf of the masses. I alight wet and weary; no enthusiastic
crowds press forward to greet their champion; the church bells are
silent; the very name elicits no responsive feeling in their torpid
bosoms. It is enough,' said the agitated Mr. Slurk, pacing to and fro,
'to curdle the ink in one's pen, and induce one to abandon their cause
for ever.'

'Did you say brandy-and-water, Sir?' said the landlord, venturing a
hint.

'Rum,' said Mr. Slurk, turning fiercely upon him. 'Have you got a fire
anywhere?'

'We can light one directly, Sir,' said the landlord.

'Which will throw out no heat until it is bed-time,' interrupted Mr.
Slurk. 'Is there anybody in the kitchen?'

Not a soul. There was a beautiful fire. Everybody had gone, and the
house door was closed for the night.

'I will drink my rum-and-water,' said Mr. Slurk, 'by the kitchen fire.'
So, gathering up his hat and newspaper, he stalked solemnly behind the
landlord to that humble apartment, and throwing himself on a settle by
the fireside, resumed his countenance of scorn, and began to read and
drink in silent dignity.

Now, some demon of discord, flying over the Saracen's Head at that
moment, on casting down his eyes in mere idle curiosity, happened to
behold Slurk established comfortably by the kitchen fire, and Pott
slightly elevated with wine in another room; upon which the malicious
demon, darting down into the last-mentioned apartment with inconceivable
rapidity, passed at once into the head of Mr. Bob Sawyer, and prompted
him for his (the demon's) own evil purpose to speak as follows:--

'I say, we've let the fire out. It's uncommonly cold after the rain,
isn't it?'

'It really is,' replied Mr. Pickwick, shivering.

'It wouldn't be a bad notion to have a cigar by the kitchen fire, would
it?' said Bob Sawyer, still prompted by the demon aforesaid.

'It would be particularly comfortable, I think,' replied Mr. Pickwick.
'Mr. Pott, what do you say?'

Mr. Pott yielded a ready assent; and all four travellers, each with his
glass in his hand, at once betook themselves to the kitchen, with Sam
Weller heading the procession to show them the way.

The stranger was still reading; he looked up and started. Mr. Pott
started.

'What's the matter?' whispered Mr. Pickwick.

'That reptile!' replied Pott.

'What reptile?' said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him for fear he should
tread on some overgrown black beetle, or dropsical spider.

'That reptile,' whispered Pott, catching Mr. Pickwick by the arm, and
pointing towards the stranger. 'That reptile Slurk, of the
_Independent_!'

'Perhaps we had better retire,' whispered Mr. Pickwick.

'Never, Sir,' rejoined Pott, pot-valiant in a double sense--'never.'
With these words, Mr. Pott took up his position on an opposite settle,
and selecting one from a little bundle of newspapers, began to read
against his enemy.

Mr. Pott, of course read the _Independent_, and Mr. Slurk, of course,
read the _Gazette_; and each gentleman audibly expressed his contempt at
the other's compositions by bitter laughs and sarcastic sniffs; whence
they proceeded to more open expressions of opinion, such as 'absurd,'
'wretched,' 'atrocity,' 'humbug,' 'knavery', 'dirt,' 'filth,' 'slime,'
'ditch-water,' and other critical remarks of the like nature.

Both Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Ben Allen had beheld these symptoms of
rivalry and hatred, with a degree of delight which imparted great
additional relish to the cigars at which they were puffing most
vigorously. The moment they began to flag, the mischievous Mr. Bob
Sawyer, addressing Slurk with great politeness, said--

'Will you allow me to look at your paper, Sir, when you have quite done
with it?'

'You will find very little to repay you for your trouble in this
contemptible _thing_, sir,' replied Slurk, bestowing a Satanic frown on
Pott.

'You shall have this presently,' said Pott, looking up, pale with rage,
and quivering in his speech, from the same cause. 'Ha! ha! you will be
amused with this _fellow's_ audacity.'

Terrible emphasis was laid upon 'thing' and 'fellow'; and the faces of
both editors began to glow with defiance.

'The ribaldry of this miserable man is despicably disgusting,' said
Pott, pretending to address Bob Sawyer, and scowling upon Slurk.

Here, Mr. Slurk laughed very heartily, and folding up the paper so as to
get at a fresh column conveniently, said, that the blockhead really
amused him.

'What an impudent blunderer this fellow is,' said Pott, turning from
pink to crimson.

'Did you ever read any of this man's foolery, Sir?' inquired Slurk of
Bob Sawyer.

'Never,' replied Bob; 'is it very bad?'

'Oh, shocking! shocking!' rejoined Slurk.

'Really! Dear me, this is too atrocious!' exclaimed Pott, at this
juncture; still feigning to be absorbed in his reading.

'If you can wade through a few sentences of malice, meanness, falsehood,
perjury, treachery, and cant,' said Slurk, handing the paper to Bob,
'you will, perhaps, be somewhat repaid by a laugh at the style of this
ungrammatical twaddler.'

'What's that you said, Sir?' inquired Mr. Pott, looking up, trembling
all over with passion.

'What's that to you, sir?' replied Slurk.

'Ungrammatical twaddler, was it, sir?' said Pott.

'Yes, sir, it was,' replied Slurk; 'and _blue bore_, Sir, if you like
that better; ha! ha!'

Mr. Pott retorted not a word at this jocose insult, but deliberately
folded up his copy of the _Independent_, flattened it carefully down,
crushed it beneath his boot, spat upon it with great ceremony, and flung
it into the fire.

'There, sir,' said Pott, retreating from the stove, 'and that's the way
I would serve the viper who produces it, if I were not, fortunately for
him, restrained by the laws of my country.'

'Serve him so, sir!' cried Slurk, starting up. 'Those laws shall never
be appealed to by him, sir, in such a case. Serve him so, sir!'

'Hear! hear!' said Bob Sawyer.

'Nothing can be fairer,' observed Mr. Ben Allen.

'Serve him so, sir!' reiterated Slurk, in a loud voice.

Mr. Pott darted a look of contempt, which might have withered an anchor.

'Serve him so, sir!' reiterated Slurk, in a louder voice than before.

'I will not, sir,' rejoined Pott.

'Oh, you won't, won't you, sir?' said Mr. Slurk, in a taunting manner;
'you hear this, gentlemen! He won't; not that he's afraid--, oh, no! he
_won't_. Ha! ha!'

'I consider you, sir,' said Mr. Pott, moved by this sarcasm, 'I consider
you a viper. I look upon you, sir, as a man who has placed himself
beyond the pale of society, by his most audacious, disgraceful, and
abominable public conduct. I view you, sir, personally and politically,
in no other light than as a most unparalleled and unmitigated viper.'

The indignant Independent did not wait to hear the end of this personal
denunciation; for, catching up his carpet-bag, which was well stuffed
with movables, he swung it in the air as Pott turned away, and, letting
it fall with a circular sweep on his head, just at that particular angle
of the bag where a good thick hairbrush happened to be packed, caused a
sharp crash to be heard throughout the kitchen, and brought him at once
to the ground.

'Gentlemen,' cried Mr. Pickwick, as Pott started up and seized the fire-
shovel--'gentlemen! Consider, for Heaven's sake--help--Sam--here--pray,
gentlemen--interfere, somebody.'

Uttering these incoherent exclamations, Mr. Pickwick rushed between the
infuriated combatants just in time to receive the carpet-bag on one side
of his body, and the fire-shovel on the other. Whether the
representatives of the public feeling of Eatanswill were blinded by
animosity, or (being both acute reasoners) saw the advantage of having a
third party between them to bear all the blows, certain it is that they
paid not the slightest attention to Mr. Pickwick, but defying each other
with great spirit, plied the carpet-bag and the fire-shovel most
fearlessly. Mr. Pickwick would unquestionably have suffered severely for
his humane interference, if Mr. Weller, attracted by his master's cries,
had not rushed in at the moment, and, snatching up a meal-sack,
effectually stopped the conflict by drawing it over the head and
shoulders of the mighty Pott, and clasping him tight round the
shoulders.

'Take away that 'ere bag from the t'other madman,' said Sam to Ben Allen
and Bob Sawyer, who had done nothing but dodge round the group, each
with a tortoise-shell lancet in his hand, ready to bleed the first man
stunned. 'Give it up, you wretched little creetur, or I'll smother you
in it.'

Awed by these threats, and quite out of breath, the _Independent_
suffered himself to be disarmed; and Mr. Weller, removing the
extinguisher from Pott, set him free with a caution.

'You take yourselves off to bed quietly,' said Sam, 'or I'll put you
both in it, and let you fight it out vith the mouth tied, as I vould a
dozen sich, if they played these games. And you have the goodness to
come this here way, sir, if you please.'

Thus addressing his master, Sam took him by the arm, and led him off,
while the rival editors were severally removed to their beds by the
landlord, under the inspection of Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Benjamin Allen;
breathing, as they went away, many sanguinary threats, and making vague
appointments for mortal combat next day. When they came to think it
over, however, it occurred to them that they could do it much better in
print, so they recommenced deadly hostilities without delay; and all
Eatanswill rung with their boldness--on paper.

They had taken themselves off in separate coaches, early next morning,
before the other travellers were stirring; and the weather having now
cleared up, the chaise companions once more turned their faces to
London.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen are in their Bristol shop discussing their prospects. They have clients but very few can pay. The best thing would be for Bob to marry Arabella and use her 1,000 pounds, except that Arabella has no liking for Bob. As they talk of the revenge they would take on another suitor, Ben Allen's aunt enters to announce that Arabella has run off and gotten married. Ben Allen, suspecting his aunt's servant of being an accomplice, violently attacks him. Mr. Pickwick arrives with Sam and the fight is broken up. Then Mr. Pickwick tells the group that Arabella has married Nathaniel Winkle. Suspicions and angry words follow, but things settle down after Sawyer, Allen, and the rest take hearty gulps from a liquor bottle. Ben becomes partially reconciled to his sister's marriage and agrees to go with Mr. Pickwick to see Winkle's father, who lives in Birmingham. Mr. Pickwick and Sam retire to their inn, where they catch the one-eyed bagman from Eatanswill about to tell the tale of the bagman's uncle. The bagman's uncle, a hard-drinking cloth salesman, had consumed a great deal of liquor at a friend's home in Edinburgh. He was walking to his lodging when he came across a yard full of old, discarded mail coaches. He sat down on an old axletree and dozed off, but he awoke to find the coaches restored and ready to leave. Three other passengers arrive: a gentleman, a ruffian, and a lady imploring help. The ruffian assaults the bagman's uncle and is defeated temporarily. Their coach begins its journey and then stops at a deserted house, where the four passengers alight. In the house, the lady's two abductors try to kill the bagman's uncle, but with her help, both of them are slain. The lady informs the uncle that their lives are still in danger, so they mount the coach and dash off, pursued by the gentleman's henchmen. In the morning, the bagman's uncle finds himself on the deserted coach. The next morning Mr. Pickwick arrives at Sawyer's shop to get Ben Allen for the trip to Birmingham. Bob Sawyer closes his shop for good and, uninvited, he climbs up on the coach. Mr. Pickwick begins to notice that passersby keep staring at them and learns that Bob Sawyer is performing pranks on top of the coach. Sawyer offers Pickwick and Allen a flask of milk-punch, and before long Mr. Pickwick rather enjoys the pranks. But as the coach draws near Birmingham that evening Mr. Pickwick becomes apprehensive about Sawyer's presence. His fears are justified, for Sawyer continues to clown in the Winkle home while Ben Allen is sleepily drunk, which makes Mr. Pickwick's mission more precarious. Mr. Winkle sternly puts a damper on the antics. After reading a long letter from his son that tells of the marriage, Mr. Winkle curtly tells Mr. Pickwick that he will think the matter over and decide what to do later, adding that he is greatly disappointed in his son's companions. Angry and worried, Mr. Pickwick leaves, taking Sawyer and Allen with him. The depressed group gets a late start for London the next day and is caught in a continuous, heavy downpour. After traveling some hours they decide to stay the night at an inn in Toweester. Mr. Pickwick gets a note off to Winkle telling of his arrival in London the following day. Sam Weller finds Pott, the windbag editor of the Eatanswill Gazette, who is also staying there. Sam invites him to join Mr. Pickwick, which he does. Pott says he intends to go to a ball given by the opposition party. Mrs. Pott has left him and taken half his property, and Pott is vengefully happy to hear that Winkle has married. Mr. Slurk, the editor of the Eatanswill Independent and Pott's mortal enemy, also stops at that inn on his way to the ball. Bob Sawyer, sensing an opportunity for mischief, leads Pott into Slurk's company, where insults lead to blows. Mr. Pickwick attempts to separate the two men and gets banged up. The battle ends when Sam subdues Pott and has Slurk disarmed. Then everyone goes to bed, and next morning they leave for London.