'And never came back again,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Wrong for vunce, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, 'for back he come,two minits afore the time, a-bilin' with rage, sayin' how he'dbeen nearly run over by a hackney-coach that he warn't used toit; and he was blowed if he wouldn't write to the lord mayor.They got him pacified at last; and for five years arter that, henever even so much as peeped out o' the lodge gate.'

'At the expiration of that time he died, I suppose,' saidMr. Pickwick.

'No, he didn't, Sir,' replied Sam. 'He got a curiosity to go andtaste the beer at a new public-house over the way, and it wos sucha wery nice parlour, that he took it into his head to go thereevery night, which he did for a long time, always comin' backreg'lar about a quarter of an hour afore the gate shut, which wasall wery snug and comfortable. At last he began to get so preciousjolly, that he used to forget how the time vent, or care nothin' atall about it, and he went on gettin' later and later, till vun nighthis old friend wos just a-shuttin' the gate--had turned the key infact--wen he come up. "Hold hard, Bill," he says. "Wot, ain'tyou come home yet, Tventy?' says the turnkey, "I thought youwos in, long ago." "No, I wasn't," says the little man, with asmile. "Well, then, I'll tell you wot it is, my friend," says theturnkey, openin' the gate wery slow and sulky, "it's my 'pinionas you've got into bad company o' late, which I'm wery sorry tosee. Now, I don't wish to do nothing harsh," he says, "but if youcan't confine yourself to steady circles, and find your vay back atreg'lar hours, as sure as you're a-standin' there, I'll shut you outaltogether!" The little man was seized vith a wiolent fit o'tremblin', and never vent outside the prison walls artervards!'

As Sam concluded, Mr. Pickwick slowly retraced his stepsdownstairs. After a few thoughtful turns in the Painted Ground,which, as it was now dark, was nearly deserted, he intimated toMr. Weller that he thought it high time for him to withdraw forthe night; requesting him to seek a bed in some adjacent public-house, and return early in the morning, to make arrangementsfor the removal of his master's wardrobe from the George andVulture. This request Mr. Samuel Weller prepared to obey, withas good a grace as he could assume, but with a very considerableshow of reluctance nevertheless. He even went so far as to essaysundry ineffectual hints regarding the expediency of stretchinghimself on the gravel for that night; but finding Mr. Pickwickobstinately deaf to any such suggestions, finally withdrew.

There is no disguising the fact that Mr. Pickwick felt verylow-spirited and uncomfortable--not for lack of society, for theprison was very full, and a bottle of wine would at once havepurchased the utmost good-fellowship of a few choice spirits,without any more formal ceremony of introduction; but he wasalone in the coarse, vulgar crowd, and felt the depression ofspirits and sinking of heart, naturally consequent on the reflectionthat he was cooped and caged up, without a prospect of liberation.As to the idea of releasing himself by ministering to thesharpness of Dodson & Fogg, it never for an instant entered his thoughts.

In this frame of mind he turned again into the coffee-roomgallery, and walked slowly to and fro. The place was intolerablydirty, and the smell of tobacco smoke perfectly suffocating.There was a perpetual slamming and banging of doors as thepeople went in and out; and the noise of their voices and footstepsechoed and re-echoed through the passages constantly. A youngwoman, with a child in her arms, who seemed scarcely able tocrawl, from emaciation and misery, was walking up and down thepassage in conversation with her husband, who had no otherplace to see her in. As they passed Mr. Pickwick, he could hearthe female sob bitterly; and once she burst into such a passion ofgrief, that she was compelled to lean against the wall for support,while the man took the child in his arms, and tried to soothe her.

Mr. Pickwick's heart was really too full to bear it, and he wentupstairs to bed.

Now, although the warder's room was a very uncomfortableone (being, in every point of decoration and convenience, severalhundred degrees inferior to the common infirmary of a countyjail), it had at present the merit of being wholly deserted save byMr. Pickwick himself. So, he sat down at the foot of his little ironbedstead, and began to wonder how much a year the wardermade out of the dirty room. Having satisfied himself, by mathematicalcalculation, that the apartment was about equal inannual value to the freehold of a small street in the suburbs ofLondon, he took to wondering what possible temptation couldhave induced a dingy-looking fly that was crawling over hispantaloons, to come into a close prison, when he had the choiceof so many airy situations--a course of meditation which led him tothe irresistible conclusion that the insect was insane. Aftersettling this point, he began to be conscious that he was gettingsleepy; whereupon he took his nightcap out of the pocket inwhich he had had the precaution to stow it in the morning, and,leisurely undressing himself, got into bed and fell asleep.

'Bravo! Heel over toe--cut and shuffle--pay away at it,Zephyr! I'm smothered if the opera house isn't your properhemisphere. Keep it up! Hooray!' These expressions, deliveredin a most boisterous tone, and accompanied with loud peals oflaughter, roused Mr. Pickwick from one of those sound slumberswhich, lasting in reality some half-hour, seem to the sleeper tohave been protracted for three weeks or a month.

The voice had no sooner ceased than the room was shakenwith such violence that the windows rattled in their frames, andthe bedsteads trembled again. Mr. Pickwick started up, andremained for some minutes fixed in mute astonishment at thescene before him.

On the floor of the room, a man in a broad-skirted green coat,with corduroy knee-smalls and gray cotton stockings, wasperforming the most popular steps of a hornpipe, with a slangand burlesque caricature of grace and lightness, which, combinedwith the very appropriate character of his costume, was inexpressiblyabsurd. Another man, evidently very drunk, who hadprobably been tumbled into bed by his companions, was sittingup between the sheets, warbling as much as he could recollect ofa comic song, with the most intensely sentimental feeling andexpression; while a third, seated on one of the bedsteads, wasapplauding both performers with the air of a profound connoisseur,and encouraging them by such ebullitions of feeling as hadalready roused Mr. Pickwick from his sleep.

This last man was an admirable specimen of a class of gentrywhich never can be seen in full perfection but in such places--they may be met with, in an imperfect state, occasionally aboutstable-yards and Public-houses; but they never attain their fullbloom except in these hot-beds, which would almost seem to beconsiderately provided by the legislature for the sole purpose ofrearing them.

He was a tall fellow, with an olive complexion, long dark hair,and very thick bushy whiskers meeting under his chin. He woreno neckerchief, as he had been playing rackets all day, and hisOpen shirt collar displayed their full luxuriance. On his head hewore one of the common eighteenpenny French skull-caps, with agaudy tassel dangling therefrom, very happily in keeping with acommon fustian coat. His legs, which, being long, were afflictedwith weakness, graced a pair of Oxford-mixture trousers, madeto show the full symmetry of those limbs. Being somewhatnegligently braced, however, and, moreover, but imperfectlybuttoned, they fell in a series of not the most graceful folds overa pair of shoes sufficiently down at heel to display a pair of verysoiled white stockings. There was a rakish, vagabond smartness,and a kind of boastful rascality, about the whole man, that wasworth a mine of gold.

This figure was the first to perceive that Mr. Pickwick waslooking on; upon which he winked to the Zephyr, and entreatedhim, with mock gravity, not to wake the gentleman.'Why, bless the gentleman's honest heart and soul!' said theZephyr, turning round and affecting the extremity of surprise;'the gentleman is awake. Hem, Shakespeare! How do you do,Sir? How is Mary and Sarah, sir? and the dear old lady at home,Sir? Will you have the kindness to put my compliments into thefirst little parcel you're sending that way, sir, and say that Iwould have sent 'em before, only I was afraid they might bebroken in the wagon, sir?'

'Don't overwhelm the gentlemen with ordinary civilities whenyou see he's anxious to have something to drink,' said thegentleman with the whiskers, with a jocose air. 'Why don't youask the gentleman what he'll take?'

'Dear me, I quite forgot,' replied the other. 'What will youtake, sir? Will you take port wine, sir, or sherry wine, sir? I canrecommend the ale, sir; or perhaps you'd like to taste the porter,sir? Allow me to have the felicity of hanging up your nightcap, Sir.'

With this, the speaker snatched that article of dress from Mr.Pickwick's head, and fixed it in a twinkling on that of the drunkenman, who, firmly impressed with the belief that he was delightinga numerous assembly, continued to hammer away at the comicsong in the most melancholy strains imaginable.

Taking a man's nightcap from his brow by violent means, andadjusting it on the head of an unknown gentleman, of dirtyexterior, however ingenious a witticism in itself, is unquestionablyone of those which come under the denomination of practicaljokes. Viewing the matter precisely in this light, Mr. Pickwick,without the slightest intimation of his purpose, sprang vigorouslyout of bed, struck the Zephyr so smart a blow in the chest as todeprive him of a considerable portion of the commodity whichsometimes bears his name, and then, recapturing his nightcap,boldly placed himself in an attitude of defence.

'Now,' said Mr. Pickwick, gasping no less from excitementthan from the expenditure of so much energy, 'come on--both ofyou--both of you!' With this liberal invitation the worthygentleman communicated a revolving motion to his clenchedfists, by way of appalling his antagonists with a display of science.

It might have been Mr. Pickwick's very unexpected gallantry,or it might have been the complicated manner in which he hadgot himself out of bed, and fallen all in a mass upon the hornpipeman, that touched his adversaries. Touched they were; for,instead of then and there making an attempt to commit man-slaughter, as Mr. Pickwick implicitly believed they would havedone, they paused, stared at each other a short time, and finallylaughed outright.

'Well, you're a trump, and I like you all the better for it,' saidthe Zephyr. 'Now jump into bed again, or you'll catch therheumatics. No malice, I hope?' said the man, extending a handthe size of the yellow clump of fingers which sometimes swingsover a glover's door.

'Certainly not,' said Mr. Pickwick, with great alacrity; for,now that the excitement was over, he began to feel rather coolabout the legs.

'Allow me the H-onour,' said the gentleman with the whiskers,presenting his dexter hand, and aspirating the h.

'With much pleasure, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick; and havingexecuted a very long and solemn shake, he got into bed again.

'My name is Smangle, sir,' said the man with the whiskers.

'Oh,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Mine is Mivins,' said the man in the stockings.

'I am delighted to hear it, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Hem,' coughed Mr. Smangle.

'Did you speak, sir?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'No, I did not, sir,' said Mr. Smangle.

All this was very genteel and pleasant; and, to make mattersstill more comfortable, Mr. Smangle assured Mr. Pickwick agreat many more times that he entertained a very high respect forthe feelings of a gentleman; which sentiment, indeed, did himinfinite credit, as he could be in no wise supposed to understand them.

'Are you going through the court, sir?' inquired Mr. Smangle.'Through the what?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Through the court--Portugal Street--the Court for Reliefof-- You know.'

'Oh, no,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'No, I am not.'

'Going out, perhaps?' suggested Mr. Mivins.

'I fear not,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'I refuse to pay somedamages, and am here in consequence.'

'Ah,' said Mr. Smangle, 'paper has been my ruin.'

'A stationer, I presume, Sir?' said Mr. Pickwick innocently.

'Stationer! No, no; confound and curse me! Not so low as that.No trade. When I say paper, I mean bills.'

'Oh, you use the word in that sense. I see,' said Mr. Pickwick.'Damme! A gentleman must expect reverses,' said Smangle.'What of that? Here am I in the Fleet Prison. Well; good. Whatthen? I'm none the worse for that, am I?'

'Not a bit,' replied Mr. Mivins. And he was quite right; for, sofar from Mr. Smangle being any the worse for it, he was somethingthe better, inasmuch as to qualify himself for the place, hehad attained gratuitous possession of certain articles of jewellery,which, long before that, had found their way to the pawnbroker's.

'Well; but come,' said Mr. Smangle; 'this is dry work. Let'srinse our mouths with a drop of burnt sherry; the last-comer shallstand it, Mivins shall fetch it, and I'll help to drink it. That's afair and gentlemanlike division of labour, anyhow. Curse me!'

Unwilling to hazard another quarrel, Mr. Pickwick gladlyassented to the proposition, and consigned the money to Mr.Mivins, who, as it was nearly eleven o'clock, lost no time inrepairing to the coffee-room on his errand.

'I say,' whispered Smangle, the moment his friend had left theroom; 'what did you give him?'

'Half a sovereign,' said Mr. Pickwick.

Title: The Pickwick Papers
Author: Charles Dickens
Viewed 229591 times

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