Martin Chuzzlewit
‘Is it a bargain, then?’ said Martin.
‘Yes, it is,’ returned the other.
‘Then finish this beer,’ said Martin, handing him the mug, and pulling
on his coat with great alacrity; ‘and let us be off as soon as you
like.’
In two minutes more he had paid his bill, which amounted to a shilling;
was lying at full length on a truss of straw, high and dry at the top
of the van, with the tilt a little open in front for the convenience of
talking to his new friend; and was moving along in the right direction
with a most satisfactory and encouraging briskness.
The driver’s name, as he soon informed Martin, was William Simmons,
better known as Bill; and his spruce appearance was sufficiently
explained by his connection with a large stage-coaching establishment at
Hounslow, whither he was conveying his load from a farm belonging to
the concern in Wiltshire. He was frequently up and down the road on such
errands, he said, and to look after the sick and rest horses, of which
animals he had much to relate that occupied a long time in the
telling. He aspired to the dignity of the regular box, and expected
an appointment on the first vacancy. He was musical besides, and had
a little key-bugle in his pocket, on which, whenever the conversation
flagged, he played the first part of a great many tunes, and regularly
broke down in the second.
‘Ah!’ said Bill, with a sigh, as he drew the back of his hand across
his lips, and put this instrument in his pocket, after screwing off the
mouth-piece to drain it; ‘Lummy Ned of the Light Salisbury, HE was the
one for musical talents. He WAS a guard. What you may call a Guard’an
Angel, was Ned.’
‘Is he dead?’ asked Martin.
‘Dead!’ replied the other, with a contemptuous emphasis. ‘Not he. You
won’t catch Ned a-dying easy. No, no. He knows better than that.’
‘You spoke of him in the past tense,’ observed Martin, ‘so I supposed he
was no more.
‘He’s no more in England,’ said Bill, ‘if that’s what you mean. He went
to the U-nited States.’
‘Did he?’ asked Martin, with sudden interest. ‘When?’
‘Five year ago, or then about,’ said Bill. ‘He had set up in the public
line here, and couldn’t meet his engagements, so he cut off to Liverpool
one day, without saying anything about it, and went and shipped himself
for the U-nited States.’
‘Well?’ said Martin.
‘Well! as he landed there without a penny to bless himself with, of
course they wos very glad to see him in the U-nited States.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Martin, with some scorn.
‘What do I mean?’ said Bill. ‘Why, THAT. All men are alike in the
U-nited States, an’t they? It makes no odds whether a man has a thousand
pound, or nothing, there. Particular in New York, I’m told, where Ned
landed.’
‘New York, was it?’ asked Martin, thoughtfully.
‘Yes,’ said Bill. ‘New York. I know that, because he sent word home that
it brought Old York to his mind, quite vivid, in consequence of being so
exactly unlike it in every respect. I don’t understand what particular
business Ned turned his mind to, when he got there; but he wrote home
that him and his friends was always a-singing, Ale Columbia, and blowing
up the President, so I suppose it was something in the public line; or
free-and-easy way again. Anyhow, he made his fortune.’
‘No!’ cried Martin.
‘Yes, he did,’ said Bill. ‘I know that, because he lost it all the day
after, in six-and-twenty banks as broke. He settled a lot of the notes
on his father, when it was ascertained that they was really stopped and
sent ‘em over with a dutiful letter. I know that, because they was
shown down our yard for the old gentleman’s benefit, that he might treat
himself with tobacco in the workus.’
‘He was a foolish fellow not to take care of his money when he had it,’
said Martin, indignantly.
‘There you’re right,’ said Bill, ‘especially as it was all in paper, and
he might have took care of it so very easy, by folding it up in a small
parcel.’
Martin said nothing in reply, but soon afterwards fell asleep, and
remained so for an hour or more. When he awoke, finding it had ceased
to rain, he took his seat beside the driver, and asked him several
questions; as how long had the fortunate guard of the Light Salisbury
been in crossing the Atlantic; at what time of the year had he sailed;
what was the name of the ship in which he made the voyage; how much had
he paid for passage-money; did he suffer greatly from sea-sickness?
and so forth. But on these points of detail his friend was possessed
of little or no information; either answering obviously at random or
acknowledging that he had never heard, or had forgotten; nor, although
he returned to the charge very often, could he obtain any useful
intelligence on these essential particulars.
They jogged on all day, and stopped so often--now to refresh, now to
change their team of horses, now to exchange or bring away a set of
harness, now on one point of business, and now upon another, connected
with the coaching on that line of road--that it was midnight when they
reached Hounslow. A little short of the stables for which the van was
bound, Martin got down, paid his crown, and forced his silk handkerchief
upon his honest friend, notwithstanding the many protestations that he
didn’t wish to deprive him of it, with which he tried to give the lie to
his longing looks. That done, they parted company; and when the van had
driven into its own yard and the gates were closed, Martin stood in the
dark street, with a pretty strong sense of being shut out, alone, upon
the dreary world, without the key of it.
But in this moment of despondency, and often afterwards, the
recollection of Mr Pecksniff operated as a cordial to him; awakening
in his breast an indignation that was very wholesome in nerving him to
obstinate endurance. Under the influence of this fiery dram he started
off for London without more ado. Arriving there in the middle of the
night, and not knowing where to find a tavern open, he was fain to
stroll about the streets and market-places until morning.
He found himself, about an hour before dawn, in the humbler regions
of the Adelphi; and addressing himself to a man in a fur-cap, who was
taking down the shutters of an obscure public-house, informed him
that he was a stranger, and inquired if he could have a bed there. It
happened by good luck that he could. Though none of the gaudiest, it was
tolerably clean, and Martin felt very glad and grateful when he crept
into it, for warmth, rest, and forgetfulness.
It was quite late in the afternoon when he awoke; and by the time he had
washed and dressed, and broken his fast, it was growing dusk again. This
was all the better, for it was now a matter of absolute necessity that
he should part with his watch to some obliging pawn-broker. He would
have waited until after dark for this purpose, though it had been the
longest day in the year, and he had begun it without a breakfast.
He passed more Golden Balls than all the jugglers in Europe have juggled
with, in the course of their united performances, before he could
determine in favour of any particular shop where those symbols were
displayed. In the end he came back to one of the first he had seen,
and entering by a side-door in a court, where the three balls, with the
legend ‘Money Lent,’ were repeated in a ghastly transparency, passed
into one of a series of little closets, or private boxes, erected for
the accommodation of the more bashful and uninitiated customers. He
bolted himself in; pulled out his watch; and laid it on the counter.
‘Upon my life and soul!’ said a low voice in the next box to the shopman
who was in treaty with him, ‘you must make it more; you must make it a
trifle more, you must indeed! You must dispense with one half-quarter
of an ounce in weighing out your pound of flesh, my best of friends, and
make it two-and-six.’
Martin drew back involuntarily, for he knew the voice at once.
‘You’re always full of your chaff,’ said the shopman, rolling up the
article (which looked like a shirt) quite as a matter of course, and
nibbing his pen upon the counter.
‘I shall never be full of my wheat,’ said Mr Tigg, ‘as long as I come
here. Ha, ha! Not bad! Make it two-and-six, my dear friend, positively
for this occasion only. Half-a-crown is a delightful coin. Two-and-six.
Going at two-and-six! For the last time at two-and-six!’
‘It’ll never be the last time till it’s quite worn out,’ rejoined the
shopman. ‘It’s grown yellow in the service as it is.’
‘Its master has grown yellow in the service, if you mean that, my
friend,’ said Mr Tigg; ‘in the patriotic service of an ungrateful
country. You are making it two-and-six, I think?’
‘I’m making it,’ returned the shopman, ‘what it always has been--two
shillings. Same name as usual, I suppose?’
‘Still the same name,’ said Mr Tigg; ‘my claim to the dormant peerage
not being yet established by the House of Lords.’
‘The old address?’
‘Not at all,’ said Mr Tigg; ‘I have removed my town establishment from
thirty-eight, Mayfair, to number fifteen-hundred-and-forty-two, Park
Lane.’
‘Come, I’m not going to put down that, you know,’ said the shopman with
a grin.
‘You may put down what you please, my friend,’ quoth Mr Tigg. ‘The fact
is still the same. The apartments for the under-butler and the fifth
footman being of a most confounded low and vulgar kind at thirty-eight,
Mayfair, I have been compelled, in my regard for the feelings which do
them so much honour, to take on lease for seven, fourteen, or twenty-one
years, renewable at the option of the tenant, the elegant and commodious
family mansion, number fifteen-hundred-and-forty-two Park Lane. Make it
two-and-six, and come and see me!’
The shopman was so highly entertained by this piece of humour that Mr
Tigg himself could not repress some little show of exultation. It vented
itself, in part, in a desire to see how the occupant of the next
box received his pleasantry; to ascertain which he glanced round the
partition, and immediately, by the gaslight, recognized Martin.
‘I wish I may die,’ said Mr Tigg, stretching out his body so far that
his head was as much in Martin’s little cell as Martin’s own head was,
‘but this is one of the most tremendous meetings in Ancient or Modern
History! How are you? What is the news from the agricultural districts?
How are our friends the P.’s? Ha, ha! David, pay particular attention to
this gentleman immediately, as a friend of mine, I beg.’
‘Here! Please to give me the most you can for this,’ said Martin,
handing the watch to the shopman. ‘I want money sorely.’
‘He wants money, sorely!’ cried Mr Tigg with excessive sympathy. ‘David,
will you have the goodness to do your very utmost for my friend, who
wants money sorely. You will deal with my friend as if he were myself.
A gold hunting-watch, David, engine-turned, capped and jewelled in
four holes, escape movement, horizontal lever, and warranted to perform
correctly, upon my personal reputation, who have observed it narrowly
for many years, under the most trying circumstances’--here he winked
at Martin, that he might understand this recommendation would have an
immense effect upon the shopman; ‘what do you say, David, to my friend?
Be very particular to deserve my custom and recommendation, David.’
‘I can lend you three pounds on this, if you like’ said the shopman to
Martin, confidentially. ‘It is very old-fashioned. I couldn’t say more.’
‘And devilish handsome, too,’ cried Mr Tigg. ‘Two-twelve-six for the
watch, and seven-and-six for personal regard. I am gratified; it may
be weakness, but I am. Three pounds will do. We take it. The name of my
friend is Smivey: Chicken Smivey, of Holborn, twenty-six-and-a-half B:
lodger.’ Here he winked at Martin again, to apprise him that all the