'Now, sir,' argued Mr. Weller, when he had concluded his report, 'if I
can get a talk with this here servant in the mornin', he'll tell me all
his master's concerns.'
'How do you know that?' interposed Mr. Pickwick.
'Bless your heart, sir, servants always do,' replied Mr. Weller.
'Oh, ah, I forgot that,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Well.'
'Then you can arrange what's best to be done, sir, and we can act
accordingly.'
As it appeared that this was the best arrangement that could be made, it
was finally agreed upon. Mr. Weller, by his master's permission, retired
to spend the evening in his own way; and was shortly afterwards elected,
by the unanimous voice of the assembled company, into the taproom
chair, in which honourable post he acquitted himself so much to the
satisfaction of the gentlemen-frequenters, that their roars of laughter
and approbation penetrated to Mr. Pickwick's bedroom, and shortened the
term of his natural rest by at least three hours.
Early on the ensuing morning, Mr. Weller was dispelling all the
feverish remains of the previous evening's conviviality, through the
instrumentality of a halfpenny shower-bath (having induced a young
gentleman attached to the stable department, by the offer of that coin,
to pump over his head and face, until he was perfectly restored),
when he was attracted by the appearance of a young fellow in
mulberry-coloured livery, who was sitting on a bench in the yard,
reading what appeared to be a hymn-book, with an air of deep
abstraction, but who occasionally stole a glance at the individual under
the pump, as if he took some interest in his proceedings, nevertheless.
'You're a rum 'un to look at, you are!' thought Mr. Weller, the first
time his eyes encountered the glance of the stranger in the mulberry
suit, who had a large, sallow, ugly face, very sunken eyes, and a
gigantic head, from which depended a quantity of lank black hair.
'You're a rum 'un!' thought Mr. Weller; and thinking this, he went on
washing himself, and thought no more about him.
Still the man kept glancing from his hymn-book to Sam, and from Sam to
his hymn-book, as if he wanted to open a conversation. So at last, Sam,
by way of giving him an opportunity, said with a familiar nod--
'How are you, governor?'
'I am happy to say, I am pretty well, Sir,' said the man, speaking with
great deliberation, and closing the book. 'I hope you are the same,
Sir?'
'Why, if I felt less like a walking brandy-bottle I shouldn't be quite
so staggery this mornin',' replied Sam. 'Are you stoppin' in this house,
old 'un?'
The mulberry man replied in the affirmative.
'How was it you worn't one of us, last night?' inquired Sam, scrubbing
his face with the towel. 'You seem one of the jolly sort--looks as
conwivial as a live trout in a lime basket,' added Mr. Weller, in an
undertone.
'I was out last night with my master,' replied the stranger.
'What's his name?' inquired Mr. Weller, colouring up very red with
sudden excitement, and the friction of the towel combined.
'Fitz-Marshall,' said the mulberry man.
'Give us your hand,' said Mr. Weller, advancing; 'I should like to know
you. I like your appearance, old fellow.'
'Well, that is very strange,' said the mulberry man, with great
simplicity of manner. 'I like yours so much, that I wanted to speak
to you, from the very first moment I saw you under the pump.' 'Did you
though?'
'Upon my word. Now, isn't that curious?'
'Wery sing'ler,' said Sam, inwardly congratulating himself upon the
softness of the stranger. 'What's your name, my patriarch?'
'Job.'
'And a wery good name it is; only one I know that ain't got a nickname
to it. What's the other name?'
'Trotter,' said the stranger. 'What is yours?'
Sam bore in mind his master's caution, and replied--
'My name's Walker; my master's name's Wilkins. Will you take a drop o'
somethin' this mornin', Mr. Trotter?'
Mr. Trotter acquiesced in this agreeable proposal; and having deposited
his book in his coat pocket, accompanied Mr. Weller to the tap, where
they were soon occupied in discussing an exhilarating compound, formed
by mixing together, in a pewter vessel, certain quantities of British
Hollands and the fragrant essence of the clove.
'And what sort of a place have you got?' inquired Sam, as he filled his
companion's glass, for the second time.
'Bad,' said Job, smacking his lips, 'very bad.'
'You don't mean that?' said Sam.
'I do, indeed. Worse than that, my master's going to be married.'
'No.'
'Yes; and worse than that, too, he's going to run away with an immense
rich heiress, from boarding-school.'
'What a dragon!' said Sam, refilling his companion's glass. 'It's some
boarding-school in this town, I suppose, ain't it?' Now, although this
question was put in the most careless tone imaginable, Mr. Job Trotter
plainly showed by gestures that he perceived his new friend's anxiety to
draw forth an answer to it. He emptied his glass, looked mysteriously at
his companion, winked both of his small eyes, one after the other, and
finally made a motion with his arm, as if he were working an imaginary
pump-handle; thereby intimating that he (Mr. Trotter) considered himself
as undergoing the process of being pumped by Mr. Samuel Weller.
'No, no,' said Mr. Trotter, in conclusion, 'that's not to be told
to everybody. That is a secret--a great secret, Mr. Walker.' As the
mulberry man said this, he turned his glass upside down, by way of
reminding his companion that he had nothing left wherewith to slake his
thirst. Sam observed the hint; and feeling the delicate manner in which
it was conveyed, ordered the pewter vessel to be refilled, whereat the
small eyes of the mulberry man glistened.
'And so it's a secret?' said Sam.
'I should rather suspect it was,' said the mulberry man, sipping his
liquor, with a complacent face.
'I suppose your mas'r's wery rich?' said Sam.
Mr. Trotter smiled, and holding his glass in his left hand, gave four
distinct slaps on the pockets of his mulberry indescribables with
his right, as if to intimate that his master might have done the same
without alarming anybody much by the chinking of coin.
'Ah,' said Sam, 'that's the game, is it?'
The mulberry man nodded significantly.
'Well, and don't you think, old feller,' remonstrated Mr. Weller, 'that
if you let your master take in this here young lady, you're a precious
rascal?'
'I know that,' said Job Trotter, turning upon his companion a
countenance of deep contrition, and groaning slightly, 'I know that, and
that's what it is that preys upon my mind. But what am I to do?'
'Do!' said Sam; 'di-wulge to the missis, and give up your master.'
'Who'd believe me?' replied Job Trotter. 'The young lady's considered
the very picture of innocence and discretion. She'd deny it, and so
would my master. Who'd believe me? I should lose my place, and get
indicted for a conspiracy, or some such thing; that's all I should take
by my motion.'
'There's somethin' in that,' said Sam, ruminating; 'there's somethin' in
that.'
'If I knew any respectable gentleman who would take the matter up,'
continued Mr. Trotter. 'I might have some hope of preventing the
elopement; but there's the same difficulty, Mr. Walker, just the same.
I know no gentleman in this strange place; and ten to one if I did,
whether he would believe my story.'
'Come this way,' said Sam, suddenly jumping up, and grasping the
mulberry man by the arm. 'My mas'r's the man you want, I see.' And after
a slight resistance on the part of Job Trotter, Sam led his newly-found
friend to the apartment of Mr. Pickwick, to whom he presented him,
together with a brief summary of the dialogue we have just repeated.
'I am very sorry to betray my master, sir,' said Job Trotter, applying
to his eyes a pink checked pocket-handkerchief about six inches square.
'The feeling does you a great deal of honour,' replied Mr. Pickwick;
'but it is your duty, nevertheless.'
'I know it is my duty, Sir,' replied Job, with great emotion. 'We should
all try to discharge our duty, Sir, and I humbly endeavour to discharge
mine, Sir; but it is a hard trial to betray a master, Sir, whose clothes
you wear, and whose bread you eat, even though he is a scoundrel, Sir.'
'You are a very good fellow,' said Mr. Pickwick, much affected; 'an
honest fellow.'
'Come, come,' interposed Sam, who had witnessed Mr. Trotter's tears with
considerable impatience, 'blow this 'ere water-cart bis'ness. It won't
do no good, this won't.'
'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick reproachfully. 'I am sorry to find that you
have so little respect for this young man's feelings.'
'His feelin's is all wery well, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller; 'and as
they're so wery fine, and it's a pity he should lose 'em, I think he'd
better keep 'em in his own buzzum, than let 'em ewaporate in hot water,
'specially as they do no good. Tears never yet wound up a clock, or
worked a steam ingin'. The next time you go out to a smoking party,
young fellow, fill your pipe with that 'ere reflection; and for the
present just put that bit of pink gingham into your pocket. 'Tain't so
handsome that you need keep waving it about, as if you was a tight-rope
dancer.'
'My man is in the right,' said Mr. Pickwick, accosting Job, 'although
his mode of expressing his opinion is somewhat homely, and occasionally
incomprehensible.'
'He is, sir, very right,' said Mr. Trotter, 'and I will give way
no longer.' 'Very well,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Now, where is this
boarding-school?'
'It is a large, old, red brick house, just outside the town, Sir,'
replied Job Trotter.
'And when,' said Mr. Pickwick--'when is this villainous design to be
carried into execution--when is this elopement to take place?'
'To-night, Sir,' replied Job.
'To-night!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 'This very night, sir,' replied Job
Trotter. 'That is what alarms me so much.'
'Instant measures must be taken,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I will see the
lady who keeps the establishment immediately.'
'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said Job, 'but that course of proceeding will
never do.'
'Why not?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'My master, sir, is a very artful man.'
'I know he is,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'And he has so wound himself round the old lady's heart, Sir,' resumed
Job, 'that she would believe nothing to his prejudice, if you went down
on your bare knees, and swore it; especially as you have no proof but
the word of a servant, who, for anything she knows (and my master would
be sure to say so), was discharged for some fault, and does this in
revenge.'
'What had better be done, then?' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Nothing but taking him in the very act of eloping, will convince the
old lady, sir,' replied Job.
'All them old cats WILL run their heads agin milestones,' observed Mr.
Weller, in a parenthesis.
'But this taking him in the very act of elopement, would be a very
difficult thing to accomplish, I fear,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'I don't know, sir,' said Mr. Trotter, after a few moments' reflection.
'I think it might be very easily done.'
'How?' was Mr. Pickwick's inquiry.
'Why,' replied Mr. Trotter, 'my master and I, being in the confidence of
the two servants, will be secreted in the kitchen at ten o'clock. When
the family have retired to rest, we shall come out of the kitchen, and
the young lady out of her bedroom. A post-chaise will be waiting, and
away we go.'
'Well?' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Well, sir, I have been thinking that if you were in waiting in the
garden behind, alone--'
'Alone,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Why alone?'
'I thought it very natural,' replied Job, 'that the old lady wouldn't
like such an unpleasant discovery to be made before more persons
than can possibly be helped. The young lady, too, sir--consider her
feelings.'
'You are very right,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'The consideration evinces your
delicacy of feeling. Go on; you are very right.'
'Well, sir, I have been thinking that if you were waiting in the back
garden alone, and I was to let you in, at the door which opens into it,
from the end of the passage, at exactly half-past eleven o'clock, you
would be just in the very moment of time to assist me in frustrating the
designs of this bad man, by whom I have been unfortunately ensnared.'
Here Mr. Trotter sighed deeply.
'Don't distress yourself on that account,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'if he had
one grain of the delicacy of feeling which distinguishes you, humble as
your station is, I should have some hopes of him.'
Job Trotter bowed low; and in spite of Mr. Weller's previous
remonstrance, the tears again rose to his eyes.
'I never see such a feller,' said Sam, 'Blessed if I don't think he's
