The Pickwick Papers
gentleman. ‘I submit that, in the present company, that ‘ere song’s
political; and, wot’s much the same, that it ain’t true. I say that that
coachman did not run away; but that he died game--game as pheasants; and
I won’t hear nothin’ said to the contrairey.’
As the mottled-faced gentleman spoke with great energy and
determination, and as the opinions of the company seemed divided on the
subject, it threatened to give rise to fresh altercation, when Mr.
Weller and Mr. Pell most opportunely arrived.
‘All right, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller.
‘The officer will be here at four o’clock,’ said Mr. Pell. ‘I suppose
you won’t run away meanwhile, eh? Ha! ha!’
‘P’raps my cruel pa ‘ull relent afore then,’ replied Sam, with a broad
grin.
‘Not I,’ said the elder Mr. Weller.
‘Do,’ said Sam.
‘Not on no account,’ replied the inexorable creditor.
‘I’ll give bills for the amount, at sixpence a month,’ said Sam.
‘I won’t take ‘em,’ said Mr. Weller.
‘Ha, ha, ha! very good, very good,’ said Mr. Solomon Pell, who was
making out his little bill of costs; ‘a very amusing incident indeed!
Benjamin, copy that.’ And Mr. Pell smiled again, as he called Mr.
Weller’s attention to the amount.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ said the professional gentleman, taking up
another of the greasy notes as Mr. Weller took it from the pocket-book.
‘Three ten and one ten is five. Much obliged to you, Mr. Weller. Your
son is a most deserving young man, very much so indeed, Sir. It’s a very
pleasant trait in a young man’s character, very much so,’ added Mr.
Pell, smiling smoothly round, as he buttoned up the money.
‘Wot a game it is!’ said the elder Mr. Weller, with a chuckle. ‘A
reg’lar prodigy son!’
‘Prodigal--prodigal son, Sir,’ suggested Mr. Pell, mildly.
‘Never mind, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, with dignity. ‘I know wot’s o’clock,
Sir. Wen I don’t, I’ll ask you, Sir.’
By the time the officer arrived, Sam had made himself so extremely
popular, that the congregated gentlemen determined to see him to prison
in a body. So off they set; the plaintiff and defendant walking arm in
arm, the officer in front, and eight stout coachmen bringing up the
rear. At Serjeant’s Inn Coffee-house the whole party halted to refresh,
and, the legal arrangements being completed, the procession moved on
again.
Some little commotion was occasioned in Fleet Street, by the pleasantry
of the eight gentlemen in the flank, who persevered in walking four
abreast; it was also found necessary to leave the mottled-faced
gentleman behind, to fight a ticket-porter, it being arranged that his
friends should call for him as they came back. Nothing but these little
incidents occurred on the way. When they reached the gate of the Fleet,
the cavalcade, taking the time from the plaintiff, gave three tremendous
cheers for the defendant, and, after having shaken hands all round, left
him.
Sam, having been formally delivered into the warder’s custody, to the
intense astonishment of Roker, and to the evident emotion of even the
phlegmatic Neddy, passed at once into the prison, walked straight to his
master’s room, and knocked at the door.
‘Come in,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
Sam appeared, pulled off his hat, and smiled.
‘Ah, Sam, my good lad!’ said Mr. Pickwick, evidently delighted to see
his humble friend again; ‘I had no intention of hurting your feelings
yesterday, my faithful fellow, by what I said. Put down your hat, Sam,
and let me explain my meaning, a little more at length.’
‘Won’t presently do, sir?’ inquired Sam.
‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but why not now?’
‘I’d rayther not now, sir,’ rejoined Sam.
‘Why?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘’Cause--’ said Sam, hesitating.
‘Because of what?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, alarmed at his follower’s
manner. ‘Speak out, Sam.’
‘’Cause,’ rejoined Sam--‘’cause I’ve got a little bisness as I want to
do.’
‘What business?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, surprised at Sam’s confused
manner.
‘Nothin’ partickler, Sir,’ replied Sam.
‘Oh, if it’s nothing particular,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile, ‘you
can speak with me first.’
‘I think I’d better see arter it at once,’ said Sam, still hesitating.
Mr. Pickwick looked amazed, but said nothing.
‘The fact is--’ said Sam, stopping short.
‘Well!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Speak out, Sam.’
‘Why, the fact is,’ said Sam, with a desperate effort, ‘perhaps I’d
better see arter my bed afore I do anythin’ else.’
‘_Your bed!_’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, in astonishment.
‘Yes, my bed, Sir,’ replied Sam, ‘I’m a prisoner. I was arrested this
here wery arternoon for debt.’
‘You arrested for debt!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, sinking into a chair.
‘Yes, for debt, Sir,’ replied Sam. ‘And the man as puts me in, ‘ull
never let me out till you go yourself.’
‘Bless my heart and soul!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Wot I say, Sir,’ rejoined Sam. ‘If it’s forty years to come, I shall be
a prisoner, and I’m very glad on it; and if it had been Newgate, it
would ha’ been just the same. Now the murder’s out, and, damme, there’s
an end on it!’
With these words, which he repeated with great emphasis and violence,
Sam Weller dashed his hat upon the ground, in a most unusual state of
excitement; and then, folding his arms, looked firmly and fixedly in his
master’s face.
CHAPTER XLIV. TREATS OF DIVERS LITTLE MATTERS WHICH OCCURRED IN THE
FLEET, AND OF MR. WINKLE’S MYSTERIOUS BEHAVIOUR; AND SHOWS HOW THE POOR
CHANCERY PRISONER OBTAINED HIS RELEASE AT LAST
Mr. Pickwick felt a great deal too much touched by the warmth of Sam’s
attachment, to be able to exhibit any manifestation of anger or
displeasure at the precipitate course he had adopted, in voluntarily
consigning himself to a debtor’s prison for an indefinite period. The
only point on which he persevered in demanding an explanation, was, the
name of Sam’s detaining creditor; but this Mr. Weller as perseveringly
withheld.
‘It ain’t o’ no use, sir,’ said Sam, again and again; ‘he’s a malicious,
bad-disposed, vorldly-minded, spiteful, windictive creetur, with a hard
heart as there ain’t no soft’nin’, as the wirtuous clergyman remarked of
the old gen’l’m’n with the dropsy, ven he said, that upon the whole he
thought he’d rayther leave his property to his vife than build a chapel
vith it.’
‘But consider, Sam,’ Mr. Pickwick remonstrated, ‘the sum is so small
that it can very easily be paid; and having made up my mind that you
shall stop with me, you should recollect how much more useful you would
be, if you could go outside the walls.’
Wery much obliged to you, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller gravely; ‘but I’d
rayther not.’
‘Rather not do what, Sam?’
‘Wy, I’d rayther not let myself down to ask a favour o’ this here
unremorseful enemy.’
‘But it is no favour asking him to take his money, Sam,’ reasoned Mr.
Pickwick.
‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ rejoined Sam, ‘but it ‘ud be a wery great favour
to pay it, and he don’t deserve none; that’s where it is, sir.’
Here Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his nose with an air of some vexation, Mr.
Weller thought it prudent to change the theme of the discourse.
‘I takes my determination on principle, Sir,’ remarked Sam, ‘and you
takes yours on the same ground; wich puts me in mind o’ the man as
killed his-self on principle, wich o’ course you’ve heerd on, Sir.’ Mr.
Weller paused when he arrived at this point, and cast a comical look at
his master out of the corners of his eyes.
‘There is no “of course” in the case, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, gradually
breaking into a smile, in spite of the uneasiness which Sam’s obstinacy
had given him. ‘The fame of the gentleman in question, never reached my
ears.’
‘No, sir!’ exclaimed Mr. Weller. ‘You astonish me, Sir; he wos a clerk
in a gov’ment office, sir.’
‘Was he?’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Yes, he wos, Sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller; ‘and a wery pleasant gen’l’m’n
too--one o’ the precise and tidy sort, as puts their feet in little
India-rubber fire-buckets wen it’s wet weather, and never has no other
bosom friends but hare-skins; he saved up his money on principle, wore a
clean shirt ev’ry day on principle; never spoke to none of his relations
on principle, ‘fear they shou’d want to borrow money of him; and wos
altogether, in fact, an uncommon agreeable character. He had his hair
cut on principle vunce a fortnight, and contracted for his clothes on
the economic principle--three suits a year, and send back the old uns.
Being a wery reg’lar gen’l’m’n, he din’d ev’ry day at the same place,
where it was one-and-nine to cut off the joint, and a wery good one-and-
nine’s worth he used to cut, as the landlord often said, with the tears
a-tricklin’ down his face, let alone the way he used to poke the fire in
the vinter time, which wos a dead loss o’ four-pence ha’penny a day, to
say nothin’ at all o’ the aggrawation o’ seein’ him do it. So uncommon
grand with it too! “_Post _arter the next gen’l’m’n,” he sings out ev’ry
day ven he comes in. “See arter the TIMES, Thomas; let me look at the
MORNIN’ HERALD, when it’s out o’ hand; don’t forget to bespeak the
CHRONICLE; and just bring the ‘TIZER, vill you:” and then he’d set vith
his eyes fixed on the clock, and rush out, just a quarter of a minit
‘fore the time to waylay the boy as wos a-comin’ in with the evenin’
paper, which he’d read with sich intense interest and persewerance as
worked the other customers up to the wery confines o’ desperation and
insanity, ‘specially one i-rascible old gen’l’m’n as the vaiter wos
always obliged to keep a sharp eye on, at sich times, fear he should be
tempted to commit some rash act with the carving-knife. Vell, Sir, here
he’d stop, occupyin’ the best place for three hours, and never takin’
nothin’ arter his dinner, but sleep, and then he’d go away to a coffee-
house a few streets off, and have a small pot o’ coffee and four
crumpets, arter wich he’d walk home to Kensington and go to bed. One
night he wos took very ill; sends for a doctor; doctor comes in a green
fly, with a kind o’ Robinson Crusoe set o’ steps, as he could let down
wen he got out, and pull up arter him wen he got in, to perwent the
necessity o’ the coachman’s gettin’ down, and thereby undeceivin’ the
public by lettin’ ‘em see that it wos only a livery coat as he’d got on,
and not the trousers to match. “Wot’s the matter?” says the doctor.
“Wery ill,” says the patient. “Wot have you been a-eatin’ on?” says the
doctor. “Roast weal,” says the patient. “Wot’s the last thing you
dewoured?” says the doctor. “Crumpets,” says the patient. “That’s it!”
says the doctor. “I’ll send you a box of pills directly, and don’t you
never take no more of ‘em,” he says. “No more o’ wot?” says the patient-
-“pills?” “No; crumpets,” says the doctor. “Wy?” says the patient,
starting up in bed; “I’ve eat four crumpets, ev’ry night for fifteen
year, on principle.” “Well, then, you’d better leave ‘em off, on
principle,” says the doctor. “Crumpets is _not _wholesome, Sir,” says
the doctor, wery fierce. “But they’re so cheap,” says the patient,
comin’ down a little, “and so wery fillin’ at the price.” “They’d be
dear to you, at any price; dear if you wos paid to eat ‘em,” says the
doctor. “Four crumpets a night,” he says, “vill do your business in six
months!” The patient looks him full in the face, and turns it over in
his mind for a long time, and at last he says, “Are you sure o’ that
‘ere, Sir?” “I’ll stake my professional reputation on it,” says the
doctor. “How many crumpets, at a sittin’, do you think ‘ud kill me off
at once?” says the patient. “I don’t know,” says the doctor. “Do you
think half-a-crown’s wurth ‘ud do it?” says the patient. “I think it
might,” says the doctor. “Three shillins’ wurth ‘ud be sure to do it, I
s’pose?” says the patient. “Certainly,” says the doctor. “Wery good,”