The Pickwick Papers
The significance of this reply was not so well disguised by Mr. Pickwick
but that Arabella understood it. So, throwing her arms round his neck,
and kissing him affectionately, she sobbed louder than before.
‘Come, come,’ said Mr. Pickwick taking her hand, ‘we will wait here a
few days longer, and see whether he writes or takes any other notice of
your husband’s communication. If not, I have thought of half a dozen
plans, any one of which would make you happy at once. There, my dear,
there!’
With these words, Mr. Pickwick gently pressed Arabella’s hand, and bade
her dry her eyes, and not distress her husband. Upon which, Arabella,
who was one of the best little creatures alive, put her handkerchief in
her reticule, and by the time Mr. Winkle joined them, exhibited in full
lustre the same beaming smiles and sparkling eyes that had originally
captivated him.
‘This is a distressing predicament for these young people,’ thought Mr.
Pickwick, as he dressed himself next morning. ‘I’ll walk up to Perker’s,
and consult him about the matter.’
As Mr. Pickwick was further prompted to betake himself to Gray’s Inn
Square by an anxious desire to come to a pecuniary settlement with the
kind-hearted little attorney without further delay, he made a hurried
breakfast, and executed his intention so speedily, that ten o’clock had
not struck when he reached Gray’s Inn.
It still wanted ten minutes to the hour when he had ascended the
staircase on which Perker’s chambers were. The clerks had not arrived
yet, and he beguiled the time by looking out of the staircase window.
The healthy light of a fine October morning made even the dingy old
houses brighten up a little; some of the dusty windows actually looking
almost cheerful as the sun’s rays gleamed upon them. Clerk after clerk
hastened into the square by one or other of the entrances, and looking
up at the Hall clock, accelerated or decreased his rate of walking
according to the time at which his office hours nominally commenced; the
half-past nine o’clock people suddenly becoming very brisk, and the ten
o’clock gentlemen falling into a pace of most aristocratic slowness. The
clock struck ten, and clerks poured in faster than ever, each one in a
greater perspiration than his predecessor. The noise of unlocking and
opening doors echoed and re-echoed on every side; heads appeared as if
by magic in every window; the porters took up their stations for the
day; the slipshod laundresses hurried off; the postman ran from house to
house; and the whole legal hive was in a bustle.
‘You’re early, Mr. Pickwick,’ said a voice behind him.
‘Ah, Mr. Lowten,’ replied that gentleman, looking round, and recognising
his old acquaintance.
‘Precious warm walking, isn’t it?’ said Lowten, drawing a Bramah key
from his pocket, with a small plug therein, to keep the dust out.
‘You appear to feel it so,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick, smiling at the clerk,
who was literally red-hot.
‘I’ve come along, rather, I can tell you,’ replied Lowten. ‘It went the
half hour as I came through the Polygon. I’m here before him, though, so
I don’t mind.’
Comforting himself with this reflection, Mr. Lowten extracted the plug
from the door-key; having opened the door, replugged and repocketed his
Bramah, and picked up the letters which the postman had dropped through
the box, he ushered Mr. Pickwick into the office. Here, in the twinkling
of an eye, he divested himself of his coat, put on a threadbare garment,
which he took out of a desk, hung up his hat, pulled forth a few sheets
of cartridge and blotting-paper in alternate layers, and, sticking a pen
behind his ear, rubbed his hands with an air of great satisfaction.
‘There, you see, Mr. Pickwick,’ he said, ‘now I’m complete. I’ve got my
office coat on, and my pad out, and let him come as soon as he likes.
You haven’t got a pinch of snuff about you, have you?’
‘No, I have not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.
‘I’m sorry for it,’ said Lowten. ‘Never mind. I’ll run out presently,
and get a bottle of soda. Don’t I look rather queer about the eyes, Mr.
Pickwick?’
The individual appealed to, surveyed Mr. Lowten’s eyes from a distance,
and expressed his opinion that no unusual queerness was perceptible in
those features.
‘I’m glad of it,’ said Lowten. ‘We were keeping it up pretty tolerably
at the Stump last night, and I’m rather out of sorts this morning.
Perker’s been about that business of yours, by the bye.’
‘What business?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick. ‘Mrs. Bardell’s costs?’
‘No, I don’t mean that,’ replied Mr. Lowten. ‘About getting that
customer that we paid the ten shillings in the pound to the bill-
discounter for, on your account--to get him out of the Fleet, you know--
about getting him to Demerara.’
‘Oh, Mr. Jingle,’ said Mr. Pickwick hastily. ‘Yes. Well?’
‘Well, it’s all arranged,’ said Lowten, mending his pen. ‘The agent at
Liverpool said he had been obliged to you many times when you were in
business, and he would be glad to take him on your recommendation.’
‘That’s well,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I am delighted to hear it.’
‘But I say,’ resumed Lowten, scraping the back of the pen preparatory to
making a fresh split, ‘what a soft chap that other is!’
‘Which other?’
‘Why, that servant, or friend, or whatever he is; you know, Trotter.’
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile. ‘I always thought him the
reverse.’
‘Well, and so did I, from what little I saw of him,’ replied Lowten, ‘it
only shows how one may be deceived. What do you think of his going to
Demerara, too?’
‘What! And giving up what was offered him here!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
‘Treating Perker’s offer of eighteen bob a week, and a rise if he
behaved himself, like dirt,’ replied Lowten. ‘He said he must go along
with the other one, and so they persuaded Perker to write again, and
they’ve got him something on the same estate; not near so good, Perker
says, as a convict would get in New South Wales, if he appeared at his
trial in a new suit of clothes.’
‘Foolish fellow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with glistening eyes. ‘Foolish
fellow.’
‘Oh, it’s worse than foolish; it’s downright sneaking, you know,’
replied Lowten, nibbing the pen with a contemptuous face. ‘He says that
he’s the only friend he ever had, and he’s attached to him, and all
that. Friendship’s a very good thing in its way--we are all very
friendly and comfortable at the Stump, for instance, over our grog,
where every man pays for himself; but damn hurting yourself for anybody
else, you know! No man should have more than two attachments--the first,
to number one, and the second to the ladies; that’s what I say--ha! ha!’
Mr. Lowten concluded with a loud laugh, half in jocularity, and half in
derision, which was prematurely cut short by the sound of Perker’s
footsteps on the stairs, at the first approach of which, he vaulted on
his stool with an agility most remarkable, and wrote intensely.
The greeting between Mr. Pickwick and his professional adviser was warm
and cordial; the client was scarcely ensconced in the attorney’s arm-
chair, however, when a knock was heard at the door, and a voice inquired
whether Mr. Perker was within.
‘Hark!’ said Perker, ‘that’s one of our vagabond friends--Jingle
himself, my dear Sir. Will you see him?’
‘What do you think?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, hesitating.
‘Yes, I think you had better. Here, you Sir, what’s your name, walk in,
will you?’
In compliance with this unceremonious invitation, Jingle and Job walked
into the room, but, seeing Mr. Pickwick, stopped short in some
confusion.
‘Well,’ said Perker, ‘don’t you know that gentleman?’
‘Good reason to,’ replied Mr. Jingle, stepping forward. ‘Mr. Pickwick--
deepest obligations--life preserver--made a man of me--you shall never
repent it, Sir.’
‘I am happy to hear you say so,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘You look much
better.’
‘Thanks to you, sir--great change--Majesty’s Fleet--unwholesome place--
very,’ said Jingle, shaking his head. He was decently and cleanly
dressed, and so was Job, who stood bolt upright behind him, staring at
Mr. Pickwick with a visage of iron.
‘When do they go to Liverpool?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, half aside to
Perker.
‘This evening, Sir, at seven o’clock,’ said Job, taking one step
forward. ‘By the heavy coach from the city, Sir.’
‘Are your places taken?’
‘They are, sir,’ replied Job.
‘You have fully made up your mind to go?’
‘I have sir,’ answered Job.
‘With regard to such an outfit as was indispensable for Jingle,’ said
Perker, addressing Mr. Pickwick aloud. ‘I have taken upon myself to make
an arrangement for the deduction of a small sum from his quarterly
salary, which, being made only for one year, and regularly remitted,
will provide for that expense. I entirely disapprove of your doing
anything for him, my dear sir, which is not dependent on his own
exertions and good conduct.’
‘Certainly,’ interposed Jingle, with great firmness. ‘Clear head--man of
the world--quite right--perfectly.’
‘By compounding with his creditor, releasing his clothes from the
pawnbroker’s, relieving him in prison, and paying for his passage,’
continued Perker, without noticing Jingle’s observation, ‘you have
already lost upwards of fifty pounds.’
‘Not lost,’ said Jingle hastily, ‘Pay it all--stick to business--cash
up--every farthing. Yellow fever, perhaps--can’t help that--if not--’
Here Mr. Jingle paused, and striking the crown of his hat with great
violence, passed his hand over his eyes, and sat down.
‘He means to say,’ said Job, advancing a few paces, ‘that if he is not
carried off by the fever, he will pay the money back again. If he lives,
he will, Mr. Pickwick. I will see it done. I know he will, Sir,’ said
Job, with energy. ‘I could undertake to swear it.’
‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, who had been bestowing a score or two
of frowns upon Perker, to stop his summary of benefits conferred, which
the little attorney obstinately disregarded, ‘you must be careful not to
play any more desperate cricket matches, Mr. Jingle, or to renew your
acquaintance with Sir Thomas Blazo, and I have little doubt of your
preserving your health.’
Mr. Jingle smiled at this sally, but looked rather foolish
notwithstanding; so Mr. Pickwick changed the subject by saying--
‘You don’t happen to know, do you, what has become of another friend of
yours--a more humble one, whom I saw at Rochester?’
‘Dismal Jemmy?’ inquired Jingle.
‘Yes.’
Jingle shook his head.
‘Clever rascal--queer fellow, hoaxing genius--Job’s brother.’
‘Job’s brother!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. ‘Well, now I look at him
closely, there _is_ a likeness.’
‘We were always considered like each other, Sir,’ said Job, with a
cunning look just lurking in the corners of his eyes, ‘only I was really
of a serious nature, and he never was. He emigrated to America, Sir, in
consequence of being too much sought after here, to be comfortable; and
has never been heard of since.’
‘That accounts for my not having received the “page from the romance of
real life,” which he promised me one morning when he appeared to be
contemplating suicide on Rochester Bridge, I suppose,’ said Mr.
Pickwick, smiling. ‘I need not inquire whether his dismal behaviour was
natural or assumed.’
‘He could assume anything, Sir,’ said Job. ‘You may consider yourself
very fortunate in having escaped him so easily. On intimate terms he
would have been even a more dangerous acquaintance than--’ Job looked at
Jingle, hesitated, and finally added, ‘than--than-myself even.’
‘A hopeful family yours, Mr. Trotter,’ said Perker, sealing a letter
which he had just finished writing.
‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Job. ‘Very much so.’
‘Well,’ said the little man, laughing, ‘I hope you are going to disgrace