The Pickwick Papers
who might have passed for a neglected twin-brother of Mr. Smouch, and
who was endowed with a large key for the purpose, Mr. Pickwick was shown
into the ‘coffee-room.’
This coffee-room was a front parlour, the principal features of which
were fresh sand and stale tobacco smoke. Mr. Pickwick bowed to the three
persons who were seated in it when he entered; and having despatched Sam
for Perker, withdrew into an obscure corner, and looked thence with some
curiosity upon his new companions.
One of these was a mere boy of nineteen or twenty, who, though it was
yet barely ten o’clock, was drinking gin-and-water, and smoking a cigar-
-amusements to which, judging from his inflamed countenance, he had
devoted himself pretty constantly for the last year or two of his life.
Opposite him, engaged in stirring the fire with the toe of his right
boot, was a coarse, vulgar young man of about thirty, with a sallow face
and harsh voice; evidently possessed of that knowledge of the world, and
captivating freedom of manner, which is to be acquired in public-house
parlours, and at low billiard tables. The third tenant of the apartment
was a middle-aged man in a very old suit of black, who looked pale and
haggard, and paced up and down the room incessantly; stopping, now and
then, to look with great anxiety out of the window as if he expected
somebody, and then resuming his walk.
‘You’d better have the loan of my razor this morning, Mr. Ayresleigh,’
said the man who was stirring the fire, tipping the wink to his friend
the boy.
‘Thank you, no, I shan’t want it; I expect I shall be out, in the course
of an hour or so,’ replied the other in a hurried manner. Then, walking
again up to the window, and once more returning disappointed, he sighed
deeply, and left the room; upon which the other two burst into a loud
laugh.
‘Well, I never saw such a game as that,’ said the gentleman who had
offered the razor, whose name appeared to be Price. ‘Never!’ Mr. Price
confirmed the assertion with an oath, and then laughed again, when of
course the boy (who thought his companion one of the most dashing
fellows alive) laughed also.
‘You’d hardly think, would you now,’ said Price, turning towards Mr.
Pickwick, ‘that that chap’s been here a week yesterday, and never once
shaved himself yet, because he feels so certain he’s going out in half
an hour’s time, thinks he may as well put it off till he gets home?’
‘Poor man!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Are his chances of getting out of his
difficulties really so great?’
‘Chances be d----d,’ replied Price; ‘he hasn’t half the ghost of one. I
wouldn’t give _that _for his chance of walking about the streets this
time ten years.’ With this, Mr. Price snapped his fingers
contemptuously, and rang the bell.
‘Give me a sheet of paper, Crookey,’ said Mr. Price to the attendant,
who in dress and general appearance looked something between a bankrupt
glazier, and a drover in a state of insolvency; ‘and a glass of brandy-
and-water, Crookey, d’ye hear? I’m going to write to my father, and I
must have a stimulant, or I shan’t be able to pitch it strong enough
into the old boy.’ At this facetious speech, the young boy, it is almost
needless to say, was fairly convulsed.
‘That’s right,’ said Mr. Price. ‘Never say die. All fun, ain’t it?’
‘Prime!’ said the young gentleman.
‘You’ve got some spirit about you, you have,’ said Price. ‘You’ve seen
something of life.’
‘I rather think I have!’ replied the boy. He had looked at it through
the dirty panes of glass in a bar door.
Mr. Pickwick, feeling not a little disgusted with this dialogue, as well
as with the air and manner of the two beings by whom it had been carried
on, was about to inquire whether he could not be accommodated with a
private sitting-room, when two or three strangers of genteel appearance
entered, at sight of whom the boy threw his cigar into the fire, and
whispering to Mr. Price that they had come to ‘make it all right’ for
him, joined them at a table in the farther end of the room.
It would appear, however, that matters were not going to be made all
right quite so speedily as the young gentleman anticipated; for a very
long conversation ensued, of which Mr. Pickwick could not avoid hearing
certain angry fragments regarding dissolute conduct, and repeated
forgiveness. At last, there were very distinct allusions made by the
oldest gentleman of the party to one Whitecross Street, at which the
young gentleman, notwithstanding his primeness and his spirit, and his
knowledge of life into the bargain, reclined his head upon the table,
and howled dismally.
Very much satisfied with this sudden bringing down of the youth’s
valour, and this effectual lowering of his tone, Mr. Pickwick rang the
bell, and was shown, at his own request, into a private room furnished
with a carpet, table, chairs, sideboard and sofa, and ornamented with a
looking-glass, and various old prints. Here he had the advantage of
hearing Mrs. Namby’s performance on a square piano overhead, while the
breakfast was getting ready; when it came, Mr. Perker came too.
‘Aha, my dear sir,’ said the little man, ‘nailed at last, eh? Come,
come, I’m not sorry for it either, because now you’ll see the absurdity
of this conduct. I’ve noted down the amount of the taxed costs and
damages for which the ca-sa was issued, and we had better settle at once
and lose no time. Namby is come home by this time, I dare say. What say
you, my dear sir? Shall I draw a cheque, or will you?’ The little man
rubbed his hands with affected cheerfulness as he said this, but
glancing at Mr. Pickwick’s countenance, could not forbear at the same
time casting a desponding look towards Sam Weller.
‘Perker,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘let me hear no more of this, I beg. I see
no advantage in staying here, so I shall go to prison to-night.’
‘You can’t go to Whitecross Street, my dear Sir,’ said Perker.
‘Impossible! There are sixty beds in a ward; and the bolt’s on, sixteen
hours out of the four-and-twenty.’
‘I would rather go to some other place of confinement if I can,’ said
Mr. Pickwick. ‘If not, I must make the best I can of that.’
‘You can go to the Fleet, my dear Sir, if you’re determined to go
somewhere,’ said Perker.
‘That’ll do,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I’ll go there directly I have finished
my breakfast.’
‘Stop, stop, my dear Sir; not the least occasion for being in such a
violent hurry to get into a place that most other men are as eager to
get out of,’ said the good-natured little attorney. ‘We must have a
habeas-corpus. There’ll be no judge at chambers till four o’clock this
afternoon. You must wait till then.’
‘Very good,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with unmoved patience. ‘Then we will
have a chop here, at two. See about it, Sam, and tell them to be
punctual.’
Mr. Pickwick remaining firm, despite all the remonstrances and arguments
of Perker, the chops appeared and disappeared in due course; he was then
put into another hackney coach, and carried off to Chancery Lane, after
waiting half an hour or so for Mr. Namby, who had a select dinner-party
and could on no account be disturbed before.
There were two judges in attendance at Serjeant’s Inn--one King’s Bench,
and one Common Pleas--and a great deal of business appeared to be
transacting before them, if the number of lawyer’s clerks who were
hurrying in and out with bundles of papers, afforded any test. When they
reached the low archway which forms the entrance to the inn, Perker was
detained a few moments parlaying with the coachman about the fare and
the change; and Mr. Pickwick, stepping to one side to be out of the way
of the stream of people that were pouring in and out, looked about him
with some curiosity.
The people that attracted his attention most, were three or four men of
shabby-genteel appearance, who touched their hats to many of the
attorneys who passed, and seemed to have some business there, the nature
of which Mr. Pickwick could not divine. They were curious-looking
fellows. One was a slim and rather lame man in rusty black, and a white
neckerchief; another was a stout, burly person, dressed in the same
apparel, with a great reddish-black cloth round his neck; a third was a
little weazen, drunken-looking body, with a pimply face. They were
loitering about, with their hands behind them, and now and then with an
anxious countenance whispered something in the ear of some of the
gentlemen with papers, as they hurried by. Mr. Pickwick remembered to
have very often observed them lounging under the archway when he had
been walking past; and his curiosity was quite excited to know to what
branch of the profession these dingy-looking loungers could possibly
belong.
He was about to propound the question to Namby, who kept close beside
him, sucking a large gold ring on his little finger, when Perker bustled
up, and observing that there was no time to lose, led the way into the
inn. As Mr. Pickwick followed, the lame man stepped up to him, and
civilly touching his hat, held out a written card, which Mr. Pickwick,
not wishing to hurt the man’s feelings by refusing, courteously accepted
and deposited in his waistcoat pocket.
‘Now,’ said Perker, turning round before he entered one of the offices,
to see that his companions were close behind him. ‘In here, my dear sir.
Hallo, what do you want?’
This last question was addressed to the lame man, who, unobserved by Mr.
Pickwick, made one of the party. In reply to it, the lame man touched
his hat again, with all imaginable politeness, and motioned towards Mr.
Pickwick.
‘No, no,’ said Perker, with a smile. ‘We don’t want you, my dear friend,
we don’t want you.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said the lame man. ‘The gentleman took my
card. I hope you will employ me, sir. The gentleman nodded to me. I’ll
be judged by the gentleman himself. You nodded to me, sir?’
‘Pooh, pooh, nonsense. You didn’t nod to anybody, Pickwick? A mistake, a
mistake,’ said Perker.
‘The gentleman handed me his card,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, producing it
from his waistcoat pocket. ‘I accepted it, as the gentleman seemed to
wish it--in fact I had some curiosity to look at it when I should be at
leisure. I--’
The little attorney burst into a loud laugh, and returning the card to
the lame man, informing him it was all a mistake, whispered to Mr.
Pickwick as the man turned away in dudgeon, that he was only a bail.
‘A what!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
‘A bail,’ replied Perker.
‘A bail!’
Yes, my dear sir--half a dozen of ‘em here. Bail you to any amount, and
only charge half a crown. Curious trade, isn’t it?’ said Perker,
regaling himself with a pinch of snuff.
‘What! Am I to understand that these men earn a livelihood by waiting
about here, to perjure themselves before the judges of the land, at the
rate of half a crown a crime?’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, quite aghast at
the disclosure.
‘Why, I don’t exactly know about perjury, my dear sir,’ replied the
little gentleman. ‘Harsh word, my dear sir, very harsh word indeed. It’s
a legal fiction, my dear sir, nothing more.’ Saying which, the attorney
shrugged his shoulders, smiled, took a second pinch of snuff, and led
the way into the office of the judge’s clerk.
This was a room of specially dirty appearance, with a very low ceiling
and old panelled walls; and so badly lighted, that although it was broad
day outside, great tallow candles were burning on the desks. At one end,
was a door leading to the judge’s private apartment, round which were
congregated a crowd of attorneys and managing clerks, who were called
in, in the order in which their respective appointments stood upon the
file. Every time this door was opened to let a party out, the next party
made a violent rush to get in; and, as in addition to the numerous