The Pickwick Papers - Charles Dickens (best e reader for epub .TXT) 📗

‘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. What then? I’m none the worse for that, am I?’

‘Not a bit,’ replied Mr. Mivins. And he was quite right; for, so far from Mr. Smangle being any the worse for it, he was something the better, inasmuch as to qualify himself for the place, he had 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’s rinse our mouths with a drop of burnt sherry; the last-comer shall stand it, Mivins shall fetch it, and I’ll help to drink it. That’s a fair and gentlemanlike division of labour, anyhow. Curse me!’

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

‘I say,’ whispered Smangle, the moment his friend had left the room; ‘what did you give him?’

‘Half a sovereign,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘He’s a devilish pleasant gentlemanly dog,’ said Mr. Smangle;— ‘infernal pleasant. I don’t know anybody more so; but—’ Here Mr. Smangle stopped short, and shook his head dubiously.

‘You don’t think there is any probability of his appropriating the money to his own use?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Oh, no! Mind, I don’t say that; I expressly say that he’s a devilish gentlemanly fellow,’ said Mr. Smangle. ‘But I think, perhaps, if somebody went down, just to see that he didn’t dip his beak into the jug by accident, or make some confounded mistake in losing the money as he came upstairs, it would be as well. Here, you sir, just run downstairs, and look after that gentleman, will you?’

This request was addressed to a little timid-looking, nervous man, whose appearance bespoke great poverty, and who had been crouching on his bedstead all this while, apparently stupefied by the novelty of his situation.

‘You know where the coffee-room is,’ said Smangle; ‘just run down, and tell that gentleman you’ve come to help him up with the jug. Or—stop—I’ll tell you what—I’ll tell you how we’ll do him,’ said Smangle, with a cunning look.

‘How?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Send down word that he’s to spend the change in cigars. Capital thought. Run and tell him that; d’ye hear? They shan’t be wasted,’ continued Smangle, turning to Mr. Pickwick. ‘I’LL smoke ‘em.’

This manoeuvring was so exceedingly ingenious and, withal, performed with such immovable composure and coolness, that Mr. Pickwick would have had no wish to disturb it, even if he had had the power. In a short time Mr. Mivins returned, bearing the sherry, which Mr. Smangle dispensed in two little cracked mugs; considerately remarking, with reference to himself, that a gentleman must not be particular under such circumstances, and that, for his part, he was not too proud to drink out of the jug. In which, to show his sincerity, he forthwith pledged the company in a draught which half emptied it.

An excellent understanding having been by these means promoted, Mr. Smangle proceeded to entertain his hearers with a relation of divers romantic adventures in which he had been from time to time engaged, involving various interesting anecdotes of a thoroughbred horse, and a magnificent Jewess, both of surpassing beauty, and much coveted by the nobility and gentry of these kingdoms.

Long before these elegant extracts from the biography of a gentleman were concluded, Mr. Mivins had betaken himself to bed, and had set in snoring for the night, leaving the timid stranger and Mr. Pickwick to the full benefit of Mr. Smangle’s experiences.

Nor were the two last-named gentlemen as much edified as they might have been by the moving passages narrated. Mr. Pickwick had been in a state of slumber for some time, when he had a faint perception of the drunken man bursting out afresh with the comic song, and receiving from Mr. Smangle a gentle intimation, through the medium of the water-jug, that his audience was not musically disposed. Mr. Pickwick then once again dropped off to sleep, with a confused consciousness that Mr. Smangle was still engaged in relating a long story, the chief point of which appeared to be that, on some occasion particularly stated and set forth, he had ‘done’ a bill and a gentleman at the same time.

 

CHAPTER XLII ILLUSTRATIVE, LIKE THE PRECEDING ONE, OF THE OLD PROVERB, THAT ADVERSITY BRINGS A MAN ACQUAINTED WITH STRANGE BEDFELLOWS—LIKEWISE CONTAINING Mr. PICKWICK’S EXTRAORDINARY AND STARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT TO Mr. SAMUEL WELLER

 

When Mr. Pickwick opened his eyes next morning, the first object upon which they rested was Samuel Weller, seated upon a small black portmanteau, intently regarding, apparently in a condition of profound abstraction, the stately figure of the dashing Mr. Smangle; while Mr. Smangle himself, who was already partially dressed, was seated on his bedstead, occupied in the desperately hopeless attempt of staring Mr. Weller out of countenance. We say desperately hopeless, because Sam, with a comprehensive gaze which took in Mr. Smangle’s cap, feet, head, face, legs, and whiskers, all at the same time, continued to look steadily on, with every demonstration of lively satisfaction, but with no more regard to Mr. Smangle’s personal sentiments on the subject than he would have displayed had he been inspecting a wooden statue, or a straw-embowelled Guy Fawkes.

‘Well; will you know me again?’ said Mr. Smangle, with a frown.

‘I’d svear to you anyveres, Sir,’ replied Sam cheerfully.

‘Don’t be impertinent to a gentleman, Sir,’ said Mr. Smangle.

‘Not on no account,’ replied Sam. ‘if you’ll tell me wen he wakes, I’ll be upon the wery best extra-super behaviour!’ This observation, having a remote tendency to imply that Mr. Smangle was no gentleman, kindled his ire.

‘Mivins!’ said Mr. Smangle, with a passionate air.

‘What’s the office?’ replied that gentleman from his couch.

‘Who the devil is this fellow?’

”Gad,’ said Mr. Mivins, looking lazily out from under the bedclothes, ‘I ought to ask YOU that. Hasn’t he any business here?’

‘No,’ replied Mr. Smangle. ‘Then knock him downstairs, and tell him not to presume to get up till I come and kick him,’ rejoined Mr. Mivins; with this prompt advice that excellent gentleman again betook himself to slumber.

The conversation exhibiting these unequivocal symptoms of verging on the personal, Mr. Pickwick deemed it a fit point at which to interpose.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Sir,’ rejoined that gentleman.

‘Has anything new occurred since last night?’

‘Nothin’ partickler, sir,’ replied Sam, glancing at Mr. Smangle’s whiskers; ‘the late prewailance of a close and confined atmosphere has been rayther favourable to the growth of veeds, of an alarmin’ and sangvinary natur; but vith that ‘ere exception things is quiet enough.’

‘I shall get up,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘give me some clean things.’ Whatever hostile intentions Mr. Smangle might have entertained, his thoughts were speedily diverted by the unpacking of the portmanteau; the contents of which appeared to impress him at once with a most favourable opinion, not only of Mr. Pickwick, but of Sam also, who, he took an early opportunity of declaring in a tone of voice loud enough for that eccentric personage to overhear, was a regular thoroughbred original, and consequently the very man after his own heart. As to Mr. Pickwick, the affection he conceived for him knew no limits.

‘Now is there anything I can do for you, my dear Sir?’ said Smangle.

‘Nothing that I am aware of, I am obliged to you,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘No linen that you want sent to the washerwoman’s? I know a delightful washerwoman outside, that comes for my things twice a week; and, by Jove!—how devilish lucky!—this is the day she calls. Shall I put any of those little things up with mine? Don’t say anything about the trouble. Confound and curse it! if one gentleman under a cloud is not to put himself a little out of the way to assist another gentleman in the same condition, what’s human nature?’

Thus spake Mr. Smangle, edging himself meanwhile as near as possible to the portmanteau, and beaming forth looks of the most fervent and disinterested friendship.

‘There’s nothing you want to give out for the man to brush, my dear creature, is there?’ resumed Smangle.

‘Nothin’ whatever, my fine feller,’ rejoined Sam, taking the reply into his own mouth. ‘P’raps if vun of us wos to brush, without troubling the man, it ‘ud be more agreeable for all parties, as the schoolmaster said when the young gentleman objected to being flogged by the butler.’

‘And there’s nothing I can send in my little box to the washerwoman’s, is there?’ said Smangle, turning from Sam to Mr. Pickwick, with an air of some discomfiture.

‘Nothin’ whatever, Sir,’ retorted Sam; ‘I’m afeered the little box must be chock full o’ your own as it is.’

This speech was accompanied with such a very expressive look at that particular portion of Mr. Smangle’s attire, by the appearance of which the skill of laundresses in getting up gentlemen’s linen is generally tested, that he was fain to turn upon his heel, and, for the present at any rate, to give up all design on Mr. Pickwick’s purse and wardrobe. He accordingly retired in dudgeon to the racket-ground, where he made a light and wholesome breakfast on a couple of the cigars which had been purchased on the previous night. Mr. Mivins, who was no smoker, and whose account for small articles of chandlery had also reached down to the bottom of the slate, and been ‘carried over’ to the other side, remained in bed, and, in his own words, ‘took it out in sleep.’

After breakfasting in a small closet attached to the coffee-room, which bore the imposing title of the Snuggery, the temporary inmate of which, in consideration of a small additional charge, had the unspeakable advantage of overhearing all the conversation in the coffee-room aforesaid; and, after despatching Mr. Weller on some necessary errands, Mr. Pickwick repaired to the lodge, to consult Mr. Roker concerning his future accommodation.

‘Accommodation, eh?’ said that gentleman, consulting a large book. ‘Plenty of that, Mr. Pickwick. Your chummage ticket will be on twenty-seven, in the third.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘My what, did you say?’

‘Your chummage ticket,’ replied Mr. Roker; ‘you’re up to that?’

‘Not quite,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.

‘Why,’ said Mr. Roker, ‘it’s as plain as Salisbury. You’ll have a chummage ticket upon twenty-seven in the third, and them as is in the room will be your chums.’

‘Are there many of them?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick dubiously.

‘Three,’ replied Mr. Roker.

Mr. Pickwick coughed.

‘One of ‘em’s a parson,’ said Mr. Roker, filling up a little piece of paper as he spoke; ‘another’s a butcher.’

‘Eh?’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘A butcher,’ repeated Mr. Roker, giving the nib of his pen a tap on the desk to cure it of a disinclination to mark. ‘What a thorough-paced goer he used to be sure-ly! You remember Tom Martin, Neddy?’ said Roker, appealing to another man in the lodge, who was paring the mud off his shoes with a five-and- twenty-bladed pocket-knife.

‘I should think so,’ replied the party addressed, with a strong emphasis on the personal pronoun.

‘Bless my dear eyes!’ said Mr. Roker, shaking his head slowly from side to side, and gazing abstractedly out of the grated windows before him, as if he were fondly recalling some peaceful scene of his early youth; ‘it seems but yesterday that he whopped