The Pickwick Papers
attached the case-bottle to the end of the walking-stick, was battering
the window with it, in token of his wish, that his friends inside would
partake of its contents, in all good-fellowship and harmony.
‘What’s to be done?’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking at the bottle. ‘This
proceeding is more absurd than the other.’
‘I think it would be best to take it in,’ replied Mr. Ben Allen; ‘it
would serve him right to take it in and keep it, wouldn’t it?’
‘It would,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘shall I?’
‘I think it the most proper course we could possibly adopt,’ replied
Ben.
This advice quite coinciding with his own opinion, Mr. Pickwick gently
let down the window and disengaged the bottle from the stick; upon which
the latter was drawn up, and Mr. Bob Sawyer was heard to laugh heartily.
‘What a merry dog it is!’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking round at his
companion, with the bottle in his hand.
‘He is,’ said Mr. Allen.
‘You cannot possibly be angry with him,’ remarked Mr. Pickwick.
‘Quite out of the question,’ observed Benjamin Allen.
During this short interchange of sentiments, Mr. Pickwick had, in an
abstracted mood, uncorked the bottle.
‘What is it?’ inquired Ben Allen carelessly.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, with equal carelessness. ‘It
smells, I think, like milk-punch.’
Oh, indeed?’ said Ben.
‘I _think _so,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick, very properly guarding himself
against the possibility of stating an untruth; ‘mind, I could not
undertake to say certainly, without tasting it.’
‘You had better do so,’ said Ben; ‘we may as well know what it is.’
‘Do you think so?’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Well; if you are curious to
know, of course I have no objection.’
Ever willing to sacrifice his own feelings to the wishes of his friend,
Mr. Pickwick at once took a pretty long taste.
‘What is it?’ inquired Ben Allen, interrupting him with some impatience.
‘Curious,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smacking his lips, ‘I hardly know, now.
Oh, yes!’ said Mr. Pickwick, after a second taste. ‘It _is_ punch.’
Mr. Ben Allen looked at Mr. Pickwick; Mr. Pickwick looked at Mr. Ben
Allen; Mr. Ben Allen smiled; Mr. Pickwick did not.
‘It would serve him right,’ said the last-named gentleman, with some
severity--‘it would serve him right to drink it every drop.’
‘The very thing that occurred to me,’ said Ben Allen.
‘Is it, indeed?’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick. ‘Then here’s his health!’ With
these words, that excellent person took a most energetic pull at the
bottle, and handed it to Ben Allen, who was not slow to imitate his
example. The smiles became mutual, and the milk-punch was gradually and
cheerfully disposed of.
‘After all,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as he drained the last drop, ‘his pranks
are really very amusing; very entertaining indeed.’
‘You may say that,’ rejoined Mr. Ben Allen. In proof of Bob Sawyer’s
being one of the funniest fellows alive, he proceeded to entertain Mr.
Pickwick with a long and circumstantial account how that gentleman once
drank himself into a fever and got his head shaved; the relation of
which pleasant and agreeable history was only stopped by the stoppage of
the chaise at the Bell at Berkeley Heath, to change horses.
‘I say! We’re going to dine here, aren’t we?’ said Bob, looking in at
the window.
‘Dine!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Why, we have only come nineteen miles, and
have eighty-seven and a half to go.’
‘Just the reason why we should take something to enable us to bear up
against the fatigue,’ remonstrated Mr. Bob Sawyer.
‘Oh, it’s quite impossible to dine at half-past eleven o’clock in the
day,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch.
‘So it is,’ rejoined Bob, ‘lunch is the very thing. Hollo, you sir!
Lunch for three, directly; and keep the horses back for a quarter of an
hour. Tell them to put everything they have cold, on the table, and some
bottled ale, and let us taste your very best Madeira.’ Issuing these
orders with monstrous importance and bustle, Mr. Bob Sawyer at once
hurried into the house to superintend the arrangements; in less than
five minutes he returned and declared them to be excellent.
The quality of the lunch fully justified the eulogium which Bob had
pronounced, and very great justice was done to it, not only by that
gentleman, but Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Pickwick also. Under the auspices
of the three, the bottled ale and the Madeira were promptly disposed of;
and when (the horses being once more put to) they resumed their seats,
with the case-bottle full of the best substitute for milk-punch that
could be procured on so short a notice, the key-bugle sounded, and the
red flag waved, without the slightest opposition on Mr. Pickwick’s part.
At the Hop Pole at Tewkesbury, they stopped to dine; upon which occasion
there was more bottled ale, with some more Madeira, and some port
besides; and here the case-bottle was replenished for the fourth time.
Under the influence of these combined stimulants, Mr. Pickwick and Mr.
Ben Allen fell fast asleep for thirty miles, while Bob and Mr. Weller
sang duets in the dickey.
It was quite dark when Mr. Pickwick roused himself sufficiently to look
out of the window. The straggling cottages by the road-side, the dingy
hue of every object visible, the murky atmosphere, the paths of cinders
and brick-dust, the deep-red glow of furnace fires in the distance, the
volumes of dense smoke issuing heavily forth from high toppling
chimneys, blackening and obscuring everything around; the glare of
distant lights, the ponderous wagons which toiled along the road, laden
with clashing rods of iron, or piled with heavy goods--all betokened
their rapid approach to the great working town of Birmingham.
As they rattled through the narrow thoroughfares leading to the heart of
the turmoil, the sights and sounds of earnest occupation struck more
forcibly on the senses. The streets were thronged with working people.
The hum of labour resounded from every house; lights gleamed from the
long casement windows in the attic storeys, and the whirl of wheels and
noise of machinery shook the trembling walls. The fires, whose lurid,
sullen light had been visible for miles, blazed fiercely up, in the
great works and factories of the town. The din of hammers, the rushing
of steam, and the dead heavy clanking of engines, was the harsh music
which arose from every quarter.
The postboy was driving briskly through the open streets, and past the
handsome and well-lighted shops that intervene between the outskirts of
the town and the Old Royal Hotel, before Mr. Pickwick had begun to
consider the very difficult and delicate nature of the commission which
had carried him thither.
The delicate nature of this commission, and the difficulty of executing
it in a satisfactory manner, were by no means lessened by the voluntary
companionship of Mr. Bob Sawyer. Truth to tell, Mr. Pickwick felt that
his presence on the occasion, however considerate and gratifying, was by
no means an honour he would willingly have sought; in fact, he would
cheerfully have given a reasonable sum of money to have had Mr. Bob
Sawyer removed to any place at not less than fifty miles’ distance,
without delay.
Mr. Pickwick had never held any personal communication with Mr. Winkle,
senior, although he had once or twice corresponded with him by letter,
and returned satisfactory answers to his inquiries concerning the moral
character and behaviour of his son; he felt nervously sensible that to
wait upon him, for the first time, attended by Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen,
both slightly fuddled, was not the most ingenious and likely means that
could have been hit upon to prepossess him in his favour.
‘However,’ said Mr. Pickwick, endeavouring to reassure himself, ‘I must
do the best I can. I must see him to-night, for I faithfully promised to
do so. If they persist in accompanying me, I must make the interview as
brief as possible, and be content that, for their own sakes, they will
not expose themselves.’
As he comforted himself with these reflections, the chaise stopped at
the door of the Old Royal. Ben Allen having been partially awakened from
a stupendous sleep, and dragged out by the collar by Mr. Samuel Weller,
Mr. Pickwick was enabled to alight. They were shown to a comfortable
apartment, and Mr. Pickwick at once propounded a question to the waiter
concerning the whereabout of Mr. Winkle’s residence.
‘Close by, Sir,’ said the waiter, ‘not above five hundred yards, Sir.
Mr. Winkle is a wharfinger, Sir, at the canal, sir. Private residence is
not--oh dear, no, sir, not five hundred yards, sir.’ Here the waiter
blew a candle out, and made a feint of lighting it again, in order to
afford Mr. Pickwick an opportunity of asking any further questions, if
he felt so disposed.
‘Take anything now, Sir?’ said the waiter, lighting the candle in
desperation at Mr. Pickwick’s silence. ‘Tea or coffee, Sir? Dinner,
sir?’
‘Nothing now.’
‘Very good, sir. Like to order supper, Sir?’
‘Not just now.’
‘Very good, Sir.’ Here, he walked slowly to the door, and then stopping
short, turned round and said, with great suavity--
‘Shall I send the chambermaid, gentlemen?’
‘You may if you please,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.
‘If _you _please, sir.’
‘And bring some soda-water,’ said Bob Sawyer.
‘Soda-water, Sir! Yes, Sir.’ With his mind apparently relieved from an
overwhelming weight, by having at last got an order for something, the
waiter imperceptibly melted away. Waiters never walk or run. They have a
peculiar and mysterious power of skimming out of rooms, which other
mortals possess not.
Some slight symptoms of vitality having been awakened in Mr. Ben Allen
by the soda-water, he suffered himself to be prevailed upon to wash his
face and hands, and to submit to be brushed by Sam. Mr. Pickwick and Bob
Sawyer having also repaired the disorder which the journey had made in
their apparel, the three started forth, arm in arm, to Mr. Winkle’s; Bob
Sawyer impregnating the atmosphere with tobacco smoke as he walked
along.
About a quarter of a mile off, in a quiet, substantial-looking street,
stood an old red brick house with three steps before the door, and a
brass plate upon it, bearing, in fat Roman capitals, the words, ‘Mr.
Winkle.’ The steps were very white, and the bricks were very red, and
the house was very clean; and here stood Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Benjamin
Allen, and Mr. Bob Sawyer, as the clock struck ten.
A smart servant-girl answered the knock, and started on beholding the
three strangers.
‘Is Mr. Winkle at home, my dear?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘He is just going to supper, Sir,’ replied the girl.
‘Give him that card if you please,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick. ‘Say I am
sorry to trouble him at so late an hour; but I am anxious to see him to-
night, and have only just arrived.’
The girl looked timidly at Mr. Bob Sawyer, who was expressing his
admiration of her personal charms by a variety of wonderful grimaces;
and casting an eye at the hats and greatcoats which hung in the passage,
called another girl to mind the door while she went upstairs. The
sentinel was speedily relieved; for the girl returned immediately, and
begging pardon of the gentlemen for leaving them in the street, ushered
them into a floor-clothed back parlour, half office and half dressing
room, in which the principal useful and ornamental articles of furniture
were a desk, a wash-hand stand and shaving-glass, a boot-rack and boot-
jack, a high stool, four chairs, a table, and an old eight-day clock.
Over the mantelpiece were the sunken doors of an iron safe, while a
couple of hanging shelves for books, an almanac, and several files of
dusty papers, decorated the walls.
‘Very sorry to leave you standing at the door, Sir,’ said the girl,