parchment in his right hand, and affectionately pressing a paper copy of
it, on Mr. Pickwick with his left, 'I had better serve you with a copy
of this writ, sir. Here is the original, sir.'
'Very well, gentlemen, very well,' said Mr. Pickwick, rising in
person and wrath at the same time; 'you shall hear from my solicitor,
gentlemen.'
'We shall be very happy to do so,' said Fogg, rubbing his hands.
'Very,' said Dodson, opening the door.
'And before I go, gentlemen,' said the excited Mr. Pickwick, turning
round on the landing, 'permit me to say, that of all the disgraceful and
rascally proceedings--'
'Stay, sir, stay,' interposed Dodson, with great politeness. 'Mr.
Jackson! Mr. Wicks!'
'Sir,' said the two clerks, appearing at the bottom of the stairs.
'I merely want you to hear what this gentleman says,' replied Dodson.
'Pray, go on, sir--disgraceful and rascally proceedings, I think you
said?'
'I did,' said Mr. Pickwick, thoroughly roused. 'I said, Sir, that of all
the disgraceful and rascally proceedings that ever were attempted, this
is the most so. I repeat it, sir.'
'You hear that, Mr. Wicks,' said Dodson.
'You won't forget these expressions, Mr. Jackson?' said Fogg.
'Perhaps you would like to call us swindlers, sir,' said Dodson. 'Pray
do, Sir, if you feel disposed; now pray do, Sir.'
'I do,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'You ARE swindlers.'
'Very good,' said Dodson. 'You can hear down there, I hope, Mr. Wicks?'
'Oh, yes, Sir,' said Wicks.
'You had better come up a step or two higher, if you can't,' added Mr.
Fogg. 'Go on, Sir; do go on. You had better call us thieves, Sir; or
perhaps You would like to assault one Of US. Pray do it, Sir, if you
would; we will not make the smallest resistance. Pray do it, Sir.'
As Fogg put himself very temptingly within the reach of Mr. Pickwick's
clenched fist, there is little doubt that that gentleman would have
complied with his earnest entreaty, but for the interposition of Sam,
who, hearing the dispute, emerged from the office, mounted the stairs,
and seized his master by the arm.
'You just come away,' said Mr. Weller. 'Battledore and shuttlecock's
a wery good game, vhen you ain't the shuttlecock and two lawyers the
battledores, in which case it gets too excitin' to be pleasant. Come
avay, Sir. If you want to ease your mind by blowing up somebody, come
out into the court and blow up me; but it's rayther too expensive work
to be carried on here.'
And without the slightest ceremony, Mr. Weller hauled his master down
the stairs, and down the court, and having safely deposited him in
Cornhill, fell behind, prepared to follow whithersoever he should lead.
Mr. Pickwick walked on abstractedly, crossed opposite the Mansion House,
and bent his steps up Cheapside. Sam began to wonder where they were
going, when his master turned round, and said--
'Sam, I will go immediately to Mr. Perker's.'
'That's just exactly the wery place vere you ought to have gone last
night, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller.
'I think it is, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I KNOW it is,' said Mr.
Weller.
'Well, well, Sam,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'we will go there at once;
but first, as I have been rather ruffled, I should like a glass of
brandy-and-water warm, Sam. Where can I have it, Sam?'
Mr. Weller's knowledge of London was extensive and peculiar. He replied,
without the slightest consideration--
'Second court on the right hand side--last house but vun on the same
side the vay--take the box as stands in the first fireplace, 'cos there
ain't no leg in the middle o' the table, which all the others has, and
it's wery inconvenient.'
Mr. Pickwick observed his valet's directions implicitly, and bidding
Sam follow him, entered the tavern he had pointed out, where the hot
brandy-and-water was speedily placed before him; while Mr. Weller,
seated at a respectful distance, though at the same table with his
master, was accommodated with a pint of porter.
The room was one of a very homely description, and was apparently under
the especial patronage of stage-coachmen; for several gentleman, who
had all the appearance of belonging to that learned profession, were
drinking and smoking in the different boxes. Among the number was one
stout, red-faced, elderly man, in particular, seated in an opposite box,
who attracted Mr. Pickwick's attention. The stout man was smoking with
great vehemence, but between every half-dozen puffs, he took his pipe
from his mouth, and looked first at Mr. Weller and then at Mr. Pickwick.
Then, he would bury in a quart pot, as much of his countenance as the
dimensions of the quart pot admitted of its receiving, and take another
look at Sam and Mr. Pickwick. Then he would take another half-dozen
puffs with an air of profound meditation and look at them again. At last
the stout man, putting up his legs on the seat, and leaning his back
against the wall, began to puff at his pipe without leaving off at all,
and to stare through the smoke at the new-comers, as if he had made up
his mind to see the most he could of them.
At first the evolutions of the stout man had escaped Mr. Weller's
observation, but by degrees, as he saw Mr. Pickwick's eyes every now and
then turning towards him, he began to gaze in the same direction, at the
same time shading his eyes with his hand, as if he partially recognised
the object before him, and wished to make quite sure of its identity.
His doubts were speedily dispelled, however; for the stout man having
blown a thick cloud from his pipe, a hoarse voice, like some strange
effort of ventriloquism, emerged from beneath the capacious shawls which
muffled his throat and chest, and slowly uttered these sounds--'Wy,
Sammy!'
'Who's that, Sam?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'Why, I wouldn't ha' believed it, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller, with
astonished eyes. 'It's the old 'un.'
'Old one,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'What old one?'
'My father, sir,' replied Mr. Weller. 'How are you, my ancient?' And
with this beautiful ebullition of filial affection, Mr. Weller made room
on the seat beside him, for the stout man, who advanced pipe in mouth
and pot in hand, to greet him.
'Wy, Sammy,' said the father, 'I ha'n't seen you, for two year and
better.'
'Nor more you have, old codger,' replied the son. 'How's mother-in-law?'
'Wy, I'll tell you what, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, senior, with much
solemnity in his manner; 'there never was a nicer woman as a widder,
than that 'ere second wentur o' mine--a sweet creetur she was, Sammy;
all I can say on her now, is, that as she was such an uncommon pleasant
widder, it's a great pity she ever changed her condition. She don't act
as a vife, Sammy.' 'Don't she, though?' inquired Mr. Weller, junior.
The elder Mr. Weller shook his head, as he replied with a sigh, 'I've
done it once too often, Sammy; I've done it once too often. Take example
by your father, my boy, and be wery careful o' widders all your life,
'specially if they've kept a public-house, Sammy.' Having delivered this
parental advice with great pathos, Mr. Weller, senior, refilled his pipe
from a tin box he carried in his pocket; and, lighting his fresh pipe
from the ashes of the old One, commenced smoking at a great rate.
'Beg your pardon, sir,' he said, renewing the subject, and addressing
Mr. Pickwick, after a considerable pause, 'nothin' personal, I hope,
sir; I hope you ha'n't got a widder, sir.'
'Not I,' replied Mr. Pickwick, laughing; and while Mr. Pickwick laughed,
Sam Weller informed his parent in a whisper, of the relation in which he
stood towards that gentleman.
'Beg your pardon, sir,' said Mr. Weller, senior, taking off his hat, 'I
hope you've no fault to find with Sammy, Sir?'
'None whatever,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Wery glad to hear it, sir,' replied the old man; 'I took a good deal o'
pains with his eddication, sir; let him run in the streets when he
was wery young, and shift for hisself. It's the only way to make a boy
sharp, sir.'
'Rather a dangerous process, I should imagine,' said Mr. Pickwick, with
a smile.
'And not a wery sure one, neither,' added Mr. Weller; 'I got reg'larly
done the other day.'
'No!' said his father.
'I did,' said the son; and he proceeded to relate, in as few words
as possible, how he had fallen a ready dupe to the stratagems of Job
Trotter.
Mr. Weller, senior, listened to the tale with the most profound
attention, and, at its termination, said--
'Worn't one o' these chaps slim and tall, with long hair, and the gift
o' the gab wery gallopin'?'
Mr. Pickwick did not quite understand the last item of description, but,
comprehending the first, said 'Yes,' at a venture.
'T' other's a black-haired chap in mulberry livery, with a wery large
head?'
'Yes, yes, he is,' said Mr. Pickwick and Sam, with great earnestness.
'Then I know where they are, and that's all about it,' said Mr. Weller;
'they're at Ipswich, safe enough, them two.'
'No!' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Fact,' said Mr. Weller, 'and I'll tell you how I know it. I work an
Ipswich coach now and then for a friend o' mine. I worked down the wery
day arter the night as you caught the rheumatic, and at the Black Boy at
Chelmsford--the wery place they'd come to--I took 'em up, right through
to Ipswich, where the man-servant--him in the mulberries--told me they
was a-goin' to put up for a long time.'
'I'll follow him,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'we may as well see Ipswich as any
other place. I'll follow him.'
'You're quite certain it was them, governor?' inquired Mr. Weller,
junior.
'Quite, Sammy, quite,' replied his father, 'for their appearance is
wery sing'ler; besides that 'ere, I wondered to see the gen'l'm'n so
formiliar with his servant; and, more than that, as they sat in the
front, right behind the box, I heerd 'em laughing and saying how they'd
done old Fireworks.'
'Old who?' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Old Fireworks, Sir; by which, I've no doubt, they meant you, Sir.'
There is nothing positively vile or atrocious in the appellation of
'old Fireworks,' but still it is by no means a respectful or flattering
designation. The recollection of all the wrongs he had sustained at
Jingle's hands, had crowded on Mr. Pickwick's mind, the moment Mr.
Weller began to speak; it wanted but a feather to turn the scale, and
'old Fireworks' did it.
'I'll follow him,' said Mr. Pickwick, with an emphatic blow on the
table.
'I shall work down to Ipswich the day arter to-morrow, Sir,' said Mr.
Weller the elder, 'from the Bull in Whitechapel; and if you really mean
to go, you'd better go with me.'
'So we had,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'very true; I can write to Bury, and
tell them to meet me at Ipswich. We will go with you. But don't hurry
away, Mr. Weller; won't you take anything?'
'You're wery good, Sir,' replied Mr. W., stopping short;--'perhaps a
small glass of brandy to drink your health, and success to Sammy, Sir,
wouldn't be amiss.'
'Certainly not,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'A glass of brandy here!' The
brandy was brought; and Mr. Weller, after pulling his hair to Mr.
Pickwick, and nodding to Sam, jerked it down his capacious throat as
if it had been a small thimbleful. 'Well done, father,' said Sam, 'take
care, old fellow, or you'll have a touch of your old complaint, the
gout.'
'I've found a sov'rin' cure for that, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, setting
down the glass.
'A sovereign cure for the gout,' said Mr. Pickwick, hastily producing
his note-book--'what is it?'
'The gout, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller, 'the gout is a complaint as arises
from too much ease and comfort. If ever you're attacked with the gout,
sir, jist you marry a widder as has got a good loud woice, with a decent
notion of usin' it, and you'll never have the gout agin. It's a capital
prescription, sir. I takes it reg'lar, and I can warrant it to drive
away any illness as is caused by too much jollity.' Having imparted
this valuable secret, Mr. Weller drained his glass once more, produced a
laboured wink, sighed deeply, and slowly retired.
'Well, what do you think of what your father says, Sam?' inquired Mr.
Pickwick, with a smile.
'Think, Sir!' replied Mr. Weller; 'why, I think he's the wictim o'
connubiality, as Blue Beard's domestic chaplain said, vith a tear of
pity, ven he buried him.'
There was no replying to this very apposite conclusion, and, therefore,
Mr. Pickwick, after settling the reckoning, resumed his walk to Gray's
Inn. By the time he reached its secluded groves, however, eight o'clock
had struck, and the unbroken stream of gentlemen in muddy high-lows,
soiled white hats, and rusty apparel, who were pouring towards the
different avenues of egress, warned him that the majority of the offices
had closed for that day.
After climbing two pairs of steep and dirty stairs, he found his
