The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, v. 1 (of 2)

by Charles Dickens

  CHAPTER X

  _Clearing up all Doubts (if any existed) of the Disinterestedness of Mr. Jingle's Character_

  There are in London several old inns, once the headquarters ofcelebrated coaches in the days when coaches performed their journeys ina graver and more solemn manner than they do in these times; but whichhave now degenerated into little more than the abiding and bookingplaces of country waggons. The reader would look in vain for any ofthese ancient hostelries, among the Golden Crosses and Bull and Mouths,which rear their stately fronts in the improved streets of London. Ifhe would light upon any of these old places, he must direct his stepsto the obscurer quarters of the town; and there in some secluded nookshe will find several, still standing with a kind of gloomy sturdiness,amidst the modern innovations which surround them.

  In the Borough especially, there still remain some half-dozen old inns,which have preserved their external features unchanged, and which haveescaped alike the rage for public improvement, and the encroachmentsof private speculation. Great, rambling, queer old places they are,with galleries, and passages, and staircases wide enough and antiquatedenough to furnish materials for a hundred ghost stories, supposing weshould ever be reduced to the lamentable necessity of inventing any,and that the world should exist long enough to exhaust the innumerableveracious legends connected with old London Bridge, and its adjacentneighbourhood on the Surrey side.

  It was in the yard of one of these inns--of no less celebrated a onethan the White Hart--that a man was busily employed in brushing thedirt off a pair of boots, early on the morning succeeding the eventsnarrated in the last chapter. He was habited in a coarse-stripedwaistcoat, with black calico sleeves, and blue glass buttons; drabbreeches and leggings. A bright red handkerchief was wound in a veryloose and unstudied style round his neck, and an old white hat wascarelessly thrown on one side of his head. There were two rows of bootsbefore him, one cleaned and the other dirty, and at every addition hemade to the clean row, he paused from his work and contemplated itsresults with evident satisfaction.

  The yard presented none of that bustle and activity which are the usualcharacteristics of a large coach inn. Three or four lumbering waggons,each with a pile of goods beneath its ample canopy, about the height ofthe second-floor window of an ordinary house, were stowed away beneatha lofty roof which extended over one end of the yard; and another,which was probably to commence its journey that morning, was drawnout into the open space. A double tier of bed-room galleries, withold clumsy balustrades, ran round two sides of the straggling area,and a double row of bells to correspond, sheltered from the weatherby a little sloping roof, hung over the door leading to the bar andcoffee-room. Two or three gigs and chaise-carts were wheeled up underdifferent little sheds and pent-houses; and the occasional heavy treadof a cart-horse, or rattling of a chain at the further end of the yard,announced to anybody who cared about the matter, that the stable layin that direction. When we add that a few boys in smock frocks werelying asleep on heavy packages, woolpacks, and other articles thatwere scattered about on heaps of straw, we have described as fully asneed be the general appearance of the yard of the White Hart Inn, HighStreet, Borough, on the particular morning in question.

  A loud ringing of one of the bells, was followed by the appearance of asmart chambermaid in the upper sleeping gallery, who, after tapping atone of the doors, and receiving a request from within, called over thebalustrades--

  "Sam!"

  "Hallo," replied the man with the white hat.

  "Number twenty-two wants his boots."

  "Ask number twenty-two, vether he'll have 'em now, or wait till he gets'em," was the reply.

  "Come, don't be a fool, Sam," said the girl, coaxingly, "the gentlemanwants his boots directly."

  "Well, you _are_ a nice young 'ooman for a musical party, you are,"said the boot-cleaner. "Look at these here boots--eleven pair o' boots;and one shoe as b'longs to number six, with the wooden leg. The elevenboots is to be called at half-past eight and the shoe at nine. Who'snumber twenty-two, that's to put all the others out? No, no; reg'larrotation, as Jack Ketch said, ven he tied the men up. Sorry to keep youa waitin', sir, but I'll attend to you directly."

  Saying which, the man in the white hat set to work upon a top-boot withincreased assiduity.

  There was another loud ring; and the bustling old landlady of the WhiteHart made her appearance in the opposite gallery.

  "Sam," cried the landlady--"where's that lazy, idle--why, Sam--oh,there you are; why don't you answer?"

  "Wouldn't be gen-teel to answer, 'till you'd done talking," repliedSam, gruffly.

  "Here, clean them shoes for number seventeen directly, and take 'em toprivate sitting-room, number five, first floor."

  The landlady flung a pair of lady's shoes into the yard, and bustledaway.

  "Number five," said Sam, as he picked up the shoes, and taking a pieceof chalk from his pocket, made a memorandum of their destination on thesoles--"Lady's shoes and private sittin' room. I suppose _she_ didn'tcome in the vaggin."

  "She came in early this morning," cried the girl, who was still leaningover the railing of the gallery, "with a gentleman in a hackney coach,and it's him as wants his boots, and you'd better do 'em, that's allabout it."

  "Vy didn't you say so before," said Sam, with great indignation,singling out the boots in question from the heap before him. "For all Iknow'd he vas one o' the regular threepennies. Private room! and a ladytoo! If he's anything of a gen'lm'n, he's vorth a shillin' a day, letalone the arrands."

  Stimulated by this inspiring reflection, Mr. Samuel brushed away withsuch hearty good will, that in a few minutes the boots and shoes, witha polish which would have struck envy to the soul of the amiable Mr.Warren (for they used Day and Martin at the White Hart), had arrived atthe door of number five.

  "Come in," said a man's voice, in reply to Sam's rap at the door.

  Sam made his best bow, and stepped into the presence of a lady andgentleman seated at breakfast. Having officiously deposited thegentleman's boots right and left at his feet, and the lady's shoesright and left at hers, he backed towards the door.

  "Boots," said the gentleman.

  "Sir," said Sam, closing the door, and keeping his hand on the knob ofthe lock.

  "Do you know--what's-a-name--Doctors' Commons?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Where is it?"

  "Paul's Churchyard, sir; low archway on the carriage-side, bookseller'sat one corner, hot-el on the other, and two porters in the middle astouts for licences."

  "Touts for licences!" said the gentleman.

  "Touts for licences," replied Sam. "Two coves in vhite aprons--touchestheir hats ven you walk in--'Licence, sir, licence?' Queer sort, them,and their mas'rs too, sir--Old Bailey Proctors--and no mistake."

  "What do they do?" inquired the gentleman.

  "Do! _You_, sir! That an't the wost on it, neither. They putsthings into old gen'lm'n's heads as they never dreamed of. Myfather, sir, vos a coachman. A widower he vos, and fat enough foranything--uncommon fat, to be sure. His missis dies and leaveshim four hundred pound. Down he goes to the Commons, to see thelawyer and draw the blunt--very smart--top-boots on--nosegay in hisbutton-hole--broad-brimmed tile--green shawl--quite the gen'lm'n. Goesthrough the archvay, thinking how he should inwest the money--up comesthe touter, touches his hat--'Licence, sir, licence?'--'What's that?'says my father.--'Licence, sir,' says he.--'What licence?' says myfather.--'Marriage licence,' says the touter.--'Dash my veskit,' saysmy father, 'I never thought o' that.'--'I think you wants one, sir?'says the touter. My father pulls up, and thinks a bit--'No,' sayshe, 'damme, I'm too old, b'sides I'm a many sizes too large,' sayshe.--'Not a bit on it, sir,' says the touter.--'Think not?' says myfather.--'I'm sure not,' says he; 'we married a gen'lm'n twice yoursize, last Monday.'--'Did you, though?' said my father.--'To be surewe did,' says the touter, 'you're a babby to him--this vay, sir--thisvay!'--and sure enough my father walks arter him, like a tame monkeybehind a horgan, into
a little back office, vere a feller sat amongdirty papers and tin boxes, making believe he was busy. 'Pray take aseat, vile I makes out the affidavit, sir,' says the lawyer.--'Thankee,sir,' says my father, and down he sat, and stared with all his eyes,and his mouth vide open, at the names on the boxes. 'What's your name,sir?' says the lawyer.--'Tony Weller,' says my father.--'Parish?'says the lawyer.--'Belle Savage,' says my father; for he stoppedthere wen he drove up, and he know'd nothing about parishes, _he_didn't.--'And what's the lady's name?' says the lawyer. My father wasstruck all of a heap. 'Blessed if I know,' says he.--'Not know!' saysthe lawyer.--'No more nor you do,' says my father; 'can't I put thatin arterwards?'--'Impossible!' says the lawyer.--'Wery well,' says myfather, after he'd thought a moment, 'put down Mrs. Clarke.'--'WhatClarke?' says the lawyer, dipping his pen in the ink.--'Susan Clarke,Markis o' Granby, Dorking,' says my father; 'she'll have me, if I ask,I des-say--I never said nothing to her, but she'll have me, I know.'The licence was made out, and she _did_ have him, and what's more she'sgot him now; and _I_ never had any of the four hundred pound, worseluck. Beg your pardon, sir," said Sam, when he had concluded, "but wenI gets on this here grievance, I runs on like a new barrow vith thevheel greased." Having said which, and having paused for an instant tosee whether he was wanted for anything more, Sam left the room.

  "Half-past nine--just the time--off at once;" said the gentleman, whomwe need hardly introduce as Mr. Jingle.

  "Time--for what?" said the spinster aunt, coquettishly.

  "Licence, dearest of angels--give notice at the church--call you mine,to-morrow"--said Mr. Jingle, and he squeezed the spinster aunt's hand.

  "The licence!" said Rachael, blushing.

  "The licence," repeated Mr. Jingle--

  "'In hurry, post-haste for a licence, In hurry, ding dong I come back.'"

  "How you run on," said Rachael.

  "Run on--nothing to the hours, days, weeks, months,years, when we're united--_run_ on--they'll flyon--bolt--mizzle--steam-engine--thousand-horse power--nothing to it."

  "Can't--can't we be married before to-morrow morning?" inquired Rachael.

  "Impossible--can't be--notice at the church--leave the licenceto-day--ceremony come off to-morrow."

  "I am so terrified, lest my brother should discover us!" said Rachael.

  "Discover--nonsense--too much shaken by the break down--besides--extremecaution--gave up the post-chaise--walked on--took a hackney coach--cameto the Borough--last place in the world that he'd look in--ha! ha!capital notion that--very."

  "Don't be long," said the spinster, affectionately, as Mr. Jingle stuckthe pinched-up hat on his head.

  "Long away from _you_?--Cruel charmer," and Mr. Jingle skippedplayfully up to the spinster aunt, imprinted a chaste kiss upon herlips, and danced out of the room.

  "Dear man!" said the spinster as the door closed after him.

  "Rum old girl," said Mr. Jingle, as he walked down the passage.

  It is painful to reflect upon the perfidy of our species; and we willnot, therefore, pursue the thread of Mr. Jingle's meditations, as hewended his way to Doctors' Commons. It will be sufficient for ourpurpose to relate, that escaping the snares of the dragons in whiteaprons, who guard the entrance to that enchanted region, he reachedthe Vicar-General's office in safety, and having procured a highlyflattering address on parchment, from the Archbishop of Canterbury,to his "trusty and well-beloved Alfred Jingle and Rachael Wardle,greeting," he carefully deposited the mystic document in his pocket,and retraced his steps in triumph to the Borough.

  He was yet on his way to the White Hart, when two plump gentlemen andone thin one entered the yard, and looked round in search of someauthorised person of whom they could make a few inquiries. Mr. SamuelWeller happened to be at that moment engaged in burnishing a pair ofpainted tops, the personal property of a farmer who was refreshinghimself with a slight lunch of two or three pounds of cold beef and apot or two of porter, after the fatigues of the Borough market; and tohim the thin gentleman straightway advanced.

  "My friend," said the thin gentleman.

  "You're one o' the adwice gratis order," thought Sam, "or you wouldn'tbe so werry fond o' me all at once." But he only said--"Well, sir?"

  "My friend," said the thin gentleman, with a conciliatory hem--"Haveyou got many people stopping here, now? Pretty busy, eh?"

  Sam stole a look at the inquirer. He was a little high-dried man, witha dark squeezed-up face, and small restless black eyes, that keptwinking and twinkling on each side of his little inquisitive nose, asif they were playing a perpetual game of peep-bo with that feature. Hewas dressed all in black, with boots as shiny as his eyes, a low whiteneckcloth, and a clean shirt with a frill to it. A gold watch-chain,and seals, depended from his fob. He carried his black kid gloves_in_ his hands, not _on_ them; and as he spoke, thrust his wristsbeneath his coat-tails, with the air of a man who was in the habit ofpropounding some regular posers.

  "Pretty busy, eh?" said the little man.

  _Sam at The White Hart._]

  "Oh, werry well, sir," replied Sam, "we shan't be bankrupts, andwe shan't make our fort'ns. We eats our biled mutton without capers,and don't care for horse-radish ven ve can get beef."

  "Ah," said the little man, "you're a wag, an't you?"

  "My eldest brother was troubled with that complaint," said Sam; "it maybe catching--I used to sleep with him."

  "This is a curious old house of yours," said the little man, lookingaround him.

  "If you'd sent word you was coming, we'd ha' had it repaired," repliedthe imperturbable Sam.

  The little man seemed rather baffled by these several repulses, and ashort consultation took place between him and the two plump gentlemen.At its conclusion, the little man took a pinch of snuff from anoblong silver box, and was apparently on the point of renewing theconversation, when one of the plump gentlemen, who in addition to abenevolent countenance, possessed a pair of spectacles, and a pair ofblack gaiters, interfered--

  "The fact of the matter is," said the benevolent gentleman, "that myfriend here (pointing to the other plump gentleman) will give you halfa guinea, if you'll answer one or two----"

  "Now, my dear sir--my dear sir," said the little man, "pray, allowme--my dear sir, the very first principle to be observed in thesecases, is this: if you place a matter in the hands of a professionalman, you must in no way interfere in the progress of the business; youmust repose implicit confidence in him. Really, Mr. (he turned to theother plump gentleman, and said)--I forget your friend's name."

  "Pickwick," said Mr. Wardle, for it was no other than that jollypersonage.

  "Ah, Pickwick--really, Mr. Pickwick, my dear sir, excuse me--I shall behappy to receive any private suggestions of yours, as _amicus curi?_,but you must see the impropriety of your interfering with my conduct inthis case, with such an _ad captandum_ argument as the offer of halfa guinea. Really, my dear sir, really;" and the little man took anargumentative pinch of snuff, and looked very profound.

  "My only wish, sir," said Mr. Pickwick, "was to bring this veryunpleasant matter to as speedy a close as possible."

  "Quite right--quite right," said the little man.

  "With which view," continued Mr. Pickwick, "I made use of the argumentwhich my experience of men has taught me is the most likely to succeedin any case."

  "Ay, ay," said the little man, "very good, very good, indeed; but youshould have suggested it to _me_. My dear sir, I'm quite certain youcannot be ignorant of the extent of confidence which must be placed inprofessional men. If any authority can be necessary on such a point, mydear sir, let me refer you to the well-known case in Barnwell and----"

  "Never mind George Barnwell," interrupted Sam, who had remained awondering listener during this short colloquy: "everybody knows vhatsort of a case his was, tho' it's always been my opinion, mind you,that the young 'ooman deserved scragging a precious sight more than hedid. Hows'ever, that's neither here nor there. You want me to exceptof half a guinea. Werry well, I'm agreeable: I
can't say no fairerthan that, can I, sir? (Mr. Pickwick smiled.) Then the next questionis, what the devil do you want with me, as the man said ven he see theghost?"

  "We want to know--" said Mr. Wardle.

  "Now, my dear sir--my dear sir," interposed the busy little man.

  Mr. Wardle shrugged his shoulders and was silent.

  "We want to know," said the little man, solemnly; "and we ask thequestion of you, in order that we may not awaken apprehensionsinside--we want to know who you've got in this house, at present?"

  "Who there is in the house!" said Sam, in whose mind the inmates werealways represented by that particular article of their costume whichcame under his immediate superintendence. "There's a vooden leg innumber six; there's a pair of Hessians in thirteen; there's two pairof halves in the commercial; there's these here painted tops in thesnuggery inside the bar; and five more tops in the coffee-room."

  "Nothing more?" said the little man.

  "Stop a bit," replied Sam, suddenly recollecting himself. "Yes;there's a pair of Vellingtons a good deal worn, and a pair o' lady'sshoes, in number five."

  "What sort of shoes?" hastily inquired Wardle, who, together with Mr.Pickwick, had been lost in bewilderment at the singular catalogue ofvisitors.

  "Country make," replied Sam.

  "Any maker's name?"

  "Brown."

  "Where of?"

  "Muggleton."

  "It _is_ them!" exclaimed Wardle. "By heavens, we've found them!"

  "Hush!" said Sam. "The Vellingtons has gone to Doctors' Commons."

  "No?" said the little man.

  "Yes, for a licence."

  "We're in time," exclaimed Wardle. "Show us the room; not a moment isto be lost."

  "Pray, my dear sir--pray," said the little man; "caution, caution." Hedrew from his pocket a red silk purse, and looked very hard at Sam ashe drew out a sovereign.

  Sam grinned expressively.

  "Show us into the room at once, without announcing us," said the littleman, "and it's yours."

  Sam threw the painted tops into a corner, and led the way through adark passage, and up a wide staircase. He paused at the end of a secondpassage, and held out his hand.

  "Here it is," whispered the attorney, as he deposited the money in thehand of their guide.

  The man stepped forward for a few paces, followed by the two friendsand their legal adviser. He stopped at a door.

  "Is this the room?" murmured the little gentleman.

  Sam nodded assent.

  Old Wardle opened the door; and the whole three walked into the roomjust as Mr. Jingle, who had that moment returned, had produced thelicence to the spinster aunt.

  The spinster uttered a loud shriek, and, throwing herself in a chair,covered her face with her hands. Mr. Jingle crumpled up the licence,and thrust it into his coat-pocket. The unwelcome visitors advancedinto the middle of the room.

  "You--you are a nice rascal, aren't you?" exclaimed Wardle, breathlesswith passion.

  "My dear sir, my dear sir," said the little man, laying his hat onthe table. "Pray, consider--pray. Defamation of character: action fordamages. Calm yourself, my dear sir, pray----"

  "How dare you drag my sister from my house?" said the old man.

  "Ay--ay--very good," said the little gentleman, "you may ask that. Howdare you, sir?--eh, sir?"

  "Who the devil are you?" inquired Mr. Jingle, in so fierce a tone, thatthe little gentleman involuntarily fell back a step or two.

  "Who is he, you scoundrel?" interposed Wardle. "He's my lawyer,Mr. Perker, of Gray's Inn. Perker, I'll have this fellowprosecuted--indicted--I'll--I'll--I'll ruin him. And you," continuedMr. Wardle, turning abruptly round to his sister, "you, Rachael,at a time of life when you ought to know better, what do _you_mean by running away with a vagabond, disgracing your family, andmaking yourself miserable? Get on your bonnet, and come back. Calla hackney-coach there, directly, and bring this lady's bill, d'yehear--d'ye hear?"

  "Cert'nly, sir," replied Sam, who had answered Wardle's violentringing of the bell with a degree of celerity which must have appearedmarvellous to anybody who didn't know that his eye had been applied tothe outside of the keyhole during the whole interview.

  "Get on your bonnet," repeated Wardle.

  "Do nothing of the kind," said Jingle. "Leave the room, sir--nobusiness here--lady's free to act as she pleases--more thanone-and-twenty."

  "More than one-and-twenty!" ejaculated Wardle, contemptuously. "Morethan one-and-forty!"

  "I an't," said the spinster aunt, her indignation getting the better ofher determination to faint.

  "You are," replied Wardle, "you're fifty if you're an hour."

  Here the spinster aunt uttered a loud shriek, and became senseless.

  "A _glass_ of water," said the humane Mr. Pickwick, summoning thelandlady.

  "A glass of water!" said the passionate Wardle. "Bring a bucket andthrow it over her; it'll do her good, and she richly deserves it."

  "Ugh, you brute!" ejaculated the kind-hearted landlady. "Poor dear."And with sundry ejaculations, of "Come now, there's a dear--drink alittle of this--it'll do you good--don't give way so--there's a love,"&c. &c., the landlady, assisted by a chambermaid, proceeded to vinegarthe forehead, beat the hands, titillate the nose, and unlace the staysof the spinster aunt, and to administer such other restoratives as areusually applied by compassionate females to ladies who are endeavouringto ferment themselves into hysterics.

  "Coach is ready, sir," said Sam, appearing at the door.

  "Come along," cried Wardle. "I'll carry her downstairs."

  At this proposition, the hysterics came on with redoubled violence.

  The landlady was about to enter a very violent protest against thisproceeding, and had already given vent to an indignant inquiry whetherMr. Wardle considered himself a lord of the creation, when Mr. Jingleinterposed--

  "Boots," said he, "get me an officer."

  "Stay, stay," said little Mr. Perker. "Consider, sir, consider."

  "I'll _not_ consider," replied Jingle. "She's her own mistress--see whodares to take her away--unless she wishes it."

  "I _won't_ be taken away," murmured the spinster aunt. "I _don't_ wishit." (Here there was a frightful relapse.)

  "My dear sir," said the little man, in a low tone, taking Mr. Wardleand Mr. Pickwick apart: "My dear sir, we're in a very awkwardsituation. It's a distressing case--very; I never knew one more so; butreally, my dear sir, really we have no power to control this lady'sactions. I warned you before we came, my dear sir, that there wasnothing to look to but a compromise."

  There was a short pause.

  "What kind of compromise would you recommend?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.

  "Why, my dear sir, our friend's in an unpleasant position--very muchso. We must be content to suffer some pecuniary loss."

  "I'll suffer any, rather than submit to this disgrace, and let her,fool as she is, be made miserable for life," said Wardle.

  "I rather think it can be done," said the bustling little man. "Mr.Jingle, will you step with us into the next room for a moment?"

  Mr. Jingle assented, and the quartette walked into an empty apartment.

  "Now, sir," said the little man, as he carefully closed the door, "isthere no way of accommodating this matter?--step this way, sir, for amoment--into this window, sir, where we can be alone--there sir, there,pray sit down, sir. Now, my dear sir, between you and I, we know verywell, my dear sir, that you have run off with this lady for the sakeof her money. Don't frown, sir, don't frown; I say, between you and I,_we_ know it. We are both men of the world, and _we_ know very wellthat our friends here, are not--eh?"

  Mr. Jingle's face gradually relaxed; and something distantly resemblinga wink quivered for an instant in his left eye.

  "Very good, very good," said the little man, observing the impressionhe had made. "Now, the fact is, that beyond a few hundreds, the ladyhas little or nothing till the death of her mother--fine old lady, mydear sir."

  "_
Old_," said Mr. Jingle, briefly but emphatically.

  "Why, yes," said the attorney, with a slight cough. "You are right, mydear sir, she is _rather_ old. She comes of an old family though, mydear sir; old in every sense of the word. The founder of that familycame into Kent, when Julius C?sar invaded Britain;--only one member ofit, since, who hasn't lived to eighty-five, and _he_ was beheaded byone of the Henrys. The old lady is not seventy-three now, my dear sir."The little man paused, and took a pinch of snuff.

  "Well?" cried Mr. Jingle.

  "Well, my dear sir--you don't take snuff?--ah! so much thebetter--expensive habit--well, my dear sir, you're a fine young man,man of the world--able to push your fortune, if you had capital, eh?"

  "Well?" said Mr. Jingle again.

  "Do you comprehend me?"

  "Not quite."

  "Don't you think--now, my dear sir, I put it to you, _don't_ youthink--that fifty pounds and liberty, would be better than Miss Wardleand expectation?"

  "Won't do--not half enough!" said Mr. Jingle, rising.

  "Nay, nay, my dear sir," remonstrated the little attorney, seizing himby the button. "Good round sum--a man like you could treble it in notime--great deal to be done with fifty pounds, my dear sir."

  "More to be done with a hundred and fifty," replied Mr. Jingle, coolly.

  "Well, my dear sir, we won't waste time in splitting straws," resumedthe little man, "say--say--seventy."

  "Won't do," said Mr. Jingle.

  "Don't go away, my dear sir--pray don't hurry," said the little man."Eighty; come: I'll write you a cheque at once."

  "Won't do," said Mr. Jingle.

  "Well, my dear sir, well," said the little man, still detaining him;"just tell me what _will_ do."

  "Expensive affair," said Mr. Jingle. "Money out of pocket--posting,nine pounds; licence, three--that's twelve--compensation, ahundred--hundred and twelve--Breach of honour--and loss of thelady----"

  "Yes, my dear sir, yes," said the little man, with a knowing look,"never mind the last two items. That's a hundred and twelve--say ahundred--come."

  "And twenty," said Mr. Jingle.

  "Come, come, I'll write you a cheque," said the little man; and down hesat at the table for that purpose.

  "I'll make it payable the day after to-morrow," said the littleman, with a look towards Mr. Wardle, "and we can get the lady away,meanwhile." Mr. Wardle sullenly nodded assent.

  "A hundred," said the little man.

  "And twenty," said Mr. Jingle.

  "My dear sir," remonstrated the little man.

  "Give it him," interposed Mr. Wardle, "and let him go."

  The cheque was written by the little gentleman, and pocketed by Mr.Jingle.

  "Now, leave this house instantly!" said Wardle, starting up.

  "My dear sir," urged the little man.

  "And mind," said Mr. Wardle, "that nothing should have induced me tomake this compromise--not even a regard for my family--if I had notknown that the moment you got any money in that pocket of yours, you'dgo to the devil faster, if possible, than you would without it----"

  "My dear sir," urged the little man again.

  "Be quiet, Perker," resumed Wardle. "Leave the room, sir."

  "Off directly," said the unabashed Jingle. "Bye-bye, Pickwick."

  If any dispassionate spectator could have beheld the countenance ofthe illustrious man, whose name forms the leading feature of the titleof this work, during the latter part of this conversation, he wouldhave been almost induced to wonder that the indignant fire whichflashed from his eyes, did not melt the glasses of his spectacles--somajestic was his wrath. His nostrils dilated, and his fists clenchedinvoluntarily, as he heard himself addressed by the villain. But herestrained himself again--he did _not_ pulverise him.

  "Here," continued the hardened traitor, tossing the licence at Mr.Pickwick's feet; "get the name altered--take home the lady--do forTuppy."

  Mr. Pickwick was a philosopher, but philosophers are only men inarmour, after all. The shaft had reached him, penetrated through hisphilosophical harness, to his very heart. In the frenzy of his rage, hehurled the inkstand madly forward, and followed it up himself. But Mr.Jingle had disappeared, and he found himself caught in the arms of Sam.

  "Hallo," said that eccentric functionary, "furniter's cheap vere youcome from, sir. Self-acting ink, that 'ere; it's wrote your mark uponthe wall, old gen'lm'n. Hold still, sir: wot's the use o' runnin' artera man as has made his lucky, and got to t'other end of the Borough bythis time?"

  Mr. Pickwick's mind, like those of all truly great men, was open toconviction. He was a quick and powerful reasoner; and a moment'sreflection sufficed to remind him of the impotency of his rage. Itsubsided as quickly as it had been roused. He panted for breath, andlooked benignantly round upon his friends.

  Shall we tell the lamentations that ensued, when Miss Wardle foundherself deserted by the faithless Jingle? Shall we extract Mr.Pickwick's masterly description of that heart-rending scene? Hisnote-book, blotted with the tears of sympathising humanity, lies openbefore us; one word, and it is in the printer's hands. But, no! we willbe resolute! We will not wring the public bosom with the delineation ofsuch suffering!

  Slowly and sadly did the two friends and the deserted lady return nextday in the Muggleton heavy coach. Dimly and darkly had the sombreshadows of a summer's night fallen upon all around, when they againreached Dingley Dell, and stood within the entrance to Manor Farm.