Чарльз Диккенс
The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. Volume 1 of 2

“And what steps, sir, do you mean to take to obtain redress?” inquired Mr. Winkle, gaining courage as he saw Pott losing it.

“Oh, Goodwin,” observed Mrs. Pott, “does he mean to horsewhip the editor of the Independent– does he, Goodwin?”

“Hush, hush, ma’am; pray keep yourself quiet,” replied the body-guard. “I dare say he will, if you wish it, ma’am.”

“Certainly,” said Pott, as his wife evinced decided symptoms of going off again. “Of course I shall.”

“When, Goodwin – when?” said Mrs. Pott, still undecided about the going off.

“Immediately, of course,” said Mr. Pott; “before the day is out.”

“Oh, Goodwin,” resumed Mrs. Pott; “it’s the only way of meeting the slander, and setting me right with the world.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” replied Goodwin. “No man as is a man, ma’am, could refuse to do it.”

So, as the hysterics were still hovering about, Mr. Pott said once more that he would do it; but Mrs. Pott was so overcome at the bare idea of having ever been suspected, that she was half a dozen times on the very verge of a relapse, and most unquestionably would have gone off, had it not been for the indefatigable efforts of the assiduous Goodwin, and repeated entreaties for pardon from the conquered Pott; and finally, when that unhappy individual had been frightened and snubbed down to his proper level, Mrs. Pott recovered, and they went to breakfast.

“You will not allow this base newspaper slander to shorten your stay here, Mr. Winkle?” said Mrs. Pott, smiling through the traces of her tears.

“I hope not,” said Mr. Pott, actuated, as he spoke, by a wish that his visitor would choke himself with the morsel of dry toast which he was raising to his lips at the moment: and so terminate his stay effectually. “I hope not.”

“You are very good,” said Mr. Winkle; “but a letter has been received from Mr. Pickwick – so I learn by a note from Mr. Tupman, which was brought up to my bed-room door, this morning – in which he requests us to join him at Bury to-day; and we are to leave by the coach at noon.”

“But you will come back?” said Mrs. Pott.

“Oh, certainly,” replied Mr. Winkle.

“You are quite sure?” said Mrs. Pott, stealing a tender look at her visitor.

“Quite,” responded Mr. Winkle.

The breakfast passed off in silence, for each member of the party was brooding over his, or her, own personal grievances. Mrs. Pott was regretting the loss of a beau; Mr. Pott his rash pledge to horsewhip the Independent; Mr. Winkle his having innocently placed himself in so awkward a situation. Noon approached, and after many adieux and promises to return, he tore himself away.

“If he ever comes back, I’ll poison him,” thought Mr. Pott, as he turned into the little back office where he prepared his thunderbolts.

“If ever I do come back, and mix myself up with these people again,” thought Mr. Winkle, as he wended his way to the Peacock, “I shall deserve to be horsewhipped myself – that’s all.”

His friends were ready, the coach was nearly so, and in half an hour they were proceeding on their journey, along the road over which Mr. Pickwick and Sam had so recently travelled, and of which, as we have already said something, we do not feel called upon to extract Mr. Snodgrass’s poetical and beautiful description.

Mr. Weller was standing at the door of the Angel, ready to receive them, and by that gentleman they were ushered to the apartment of Mr. Pickwick, where, to the no small surprise of Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass, and the no small embarrassment of Mr. Tupman, they found old Wardle and Trundle.

“How are you?” said the old man, grasping Mr. Tupman’s hand. “Don’t hang back, or look sentimental about it; it can’t be helped, old fellow. For her sake, I wish you’d had her; for your own, I’m very glad you have not. A young fellow like you will do better one of these days – eh?” With this consolation, Wardle slapped Mr. Tupman on the back, and laughed heartily.

“Well, and how are you, my fine fellows?” said the old gentleman, shaking hands with Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass at the same time. “I have just been telling Pickwick that we must have you all down at Christmas. We’re going to have a wedding – a real wedding this time.”

“A wedding!” exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, turning very pale.

“Yes, a wedding. But don’t be frightened,” said the good-humoured old man; “it’s only Trundle there, and Bella.”

“Oh, is that all!” said Mr. Snodgrass, relieved from a painful doubt which had fallen heavily on his breast. “Give you joy, sir. How is Joe?”

“Very well,” replied the old gentleman. “Sleepy as ever.”

“And your mother, and the clergyman, and all of ’em?”

“Quite well.”

“Where,” said Mr. Tupman, with an effort – “where is —she, sir?” and he turned away his head, and covered his eyes with his hand.

“She!” said the old gentleman, with a knowing shake of the head. “Do you mean my single relative – eh?”

Mr. Tupman, by a nod, intimated that his question applied to the disappointed Rachael.

“Oh, she’s gone away,” said the old gentleman. “She’s living at a relation’s, far enough off. She couldn’t bear to see the girls, so I let her go. But come! Here’s the dinner. You must be hungry after your ride. I am, without any ride at all; so let us fall to.”

Ample justice was done to the meal; and when they were seated round the table, after it had been disposed of, Mr. Pickwick, to the intense horror and indignation of his followers, related the adventure he had undergone, and the success which had attended the base artifices of the diabolical Jingle.

“And the attack of rheumatism which I caught in that garden,” said Mr. Pickwick in conclusion, “renders me lame at this moment.”

“I, too, have had something of an adventure,” said Mr. Winkle, with a smile; and at the request of Mr. Pickwick he detailed the malicious libel of the Eatanswill Independent, and the consequent excitement of their friend, the editor.

Mr. Pickwick’s brow darkened during the recital. His friends observed it, and, when Mr. Winkle had concluded, maintained a profound silence. Mr. Pickwick struck the table emphatically with his clenched fist, and spoke as follows:

“Is it not a wonderful circumstance,” said Mr. Pickwick, “that we seem destined to enter no man’s house without involving him in some degree of trouble? Does, it not, I ask, bespeak the indiscretion, or, worse than that, the blackness of heart – that I should say so! – of my followers, that, beneath whatever roof they locate, they disturb the peace of mind and happiness of some confiding female? Is it not, I say – ”

Mr. Pickwick would in all probability have gone on for some time, had not the entrance of Sam, with a letter, caused him to break off in his eloquent discourse. He passed the handkerchief across his forehead, took off his spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again; and his voice had recovered its wonted softness of tone when he said:

“What have you there, Sam?”

“Called at the Post-office just now, and found this here letter, as has laid there for two days,” replied Mr. Weller. “It’s sealed with a vafer, and directed in round hand.”

“I don’t know this hand,” said Mr. Pickwick, opening the letter. “Mercy on us! what’s this? It must be a jest; it – it – can’t be true.”

“What’s the matter?” was the general inquiry.

“Nobody dead, is there?” said Wardle, alarmed at the horror in Mr. Pickwick’s countenance.

Mr. Pickwick made no reply, but, pushing the letter across the table, and desiring Mr. Tupman to read it aloud, fell back in his chair with a look of vacant astonishment quite alarming to behold.

Mr. Tupman, with a trembling voice, read the letter, of which the following is a copy: —

Freeman’s Court, Cornhill, August 28th, 1830.

Bardell against Pickwick.

Sir,

Having been instructed by Mrs. Martha Bardell to commence an action against you for a breach of promise of marriage, for which the plaintiff lays her damages at fifteen hundred pounds, we beg to inform you that a writ has been issued against you in this suit in the Court of Common Pleas; and request to know, by return of post, the name of your attorney in London, who will accept service thereof.

We are, Sir,

Your obedient servants,

Dodson and Fogg.

Mr. Samuel Pickwick.

There was something so impressive in the mute astonishment with which each man regarded his neighbour, and every man regarded Mr. Pickwick, that all seemed afraid to speak. The silence was at length broken by Mr. Tupman.

“Dodson and Fogg,” he repeated, mechanically.

“Bardell and Pickwick,” said Mr. Snodgrass, musing.

“Peace of mind and happiness of confiding females,” murmured Mr. Winkle, with an air of abstraction.

“It’s a conspiracy,” said Mr. Pickwick, at length recovering the power of speech; “a base conspiracy between these two grasping attorneys, Dodson and Fogg. Mrs. Bardell would never do it; – she hasn’t the heart to do it; – she hasn’t the case to do it. Ridiculous – ridiculous.”

“Of her heart,” said Wardle, with a smile, “you should certainly be the best judge. I don’t wish to discourage you, but I should certainly say that, of her case, Dodson and Fogg are far better judges than any of us can be.”

“It’s a vile attempt to extort money,” said Mr. Pickwick.

“I hope it is,” said Wardle, with a short, dry cough.

“Who ever heard me address her in any way but that in which a lodger would address his landlady?” continued Mr. Pickwick, with great vehemence. “Who ever saw me with her? Not even my friends here – ”

“Except on one occasion,” said Mr. Tupman.

Mr. Pickwick changed colour.

“Ah,” said Mr. Wardle. “Well, that’s important. There was nothing suspicious then, I suppose?”

Mr. Tupman glanced timidly at his leader. “Why,” said he, “there was nothing suspicious; but – I don’t know how it happened, mind – she certainly was reclining in his arms.”

“Gracious powers!” ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, as the recollection of the scene in question struck forcibly upon him; “what a dreadful instance of the force of circumstances! So she was – so she was.”

“And our friend was soothing her anguish,” said Mr. Winkle, rather maliciously.

“So I was,” said Mr. Pickwick. “I won’t deny it. So I was.”

“Hallo!” said Wardle; “for a case in which there’s nothing suspicious, this looks rather queer – eh, Pickwick? Ah, sly dog – sly dog!” and he laughed till the glasses on the sideboard rang again.

“What a dreadful conjunction of appearances!” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, resting his chin upon his hands. “Winkle – Tupman – I beg your pardon for the observations I made just now. We are all the victims of circumstances, and I the greatest.” With this apology Mr. Pickwick buried his head in his hands, and ruminated; while Wardle measured out a regular circle of nods and winks, addressed to the other members of the company.

“I’ll have it explained, though,” said Mr. Pickwick, raising his head and hammering the table. “I’ll see this Dodson and Fogg! I’ll go to London to-morrow.”

“Not to-morrow,” said Wardle; “you’re too lame.”

“Well, then, next day.”

“Next day is the first of September, and you’re pledged to ride out with us, as far as Sir Geoffrey Manning’s grounds, at all events, and to meet us at lunch, if you don’t take the field.”

“Well, then, the day after,” said Mr. Pickwick; “Thursday – Sam!”

“Sir?” replied Mr. Weller.

“Take two places outside to London, on Thursday morning, for yourself and me.”

“Wery well, sir.”

Mr. Weller left the room, and departed slowly on his errand, with his hands in his pocket, and his eyes fixed on the ground.

“Rum feller, the hemperor,” said Mr. Weller, as he walked slowly up the street. “Think o’ his making up to that ’ere Mrs. Bardell – vith a little boy, too! Always the vay with these here old ’uns hows’ever, as is such steady goers to look at. I didn’t think he’d ha’ done it, though – I didn’t think he’d ha’ done it!” Moralising in this strain, Mr. Samuel Weller bent his steps towards the booking-office.

CHAPTER XIX
A Pleasant Day, with an Unpleasant Termination

The birds, who, happily for their own peace of mind and personal comfort, were in blissful ignorance of the preparations which had been making to astonish them, on the first of September, hailed it, no doubt, as one of the pleasantest mornings they had seen that season. Many a young partridge who strutted complacently among the stubble, with all the finicking coxcombry of youth, and many an older one who watched his levity out of his little round eye, with the contemptuous air of a bird of wisdom and experience, alike unconscious of their approaching doom, basked in the fresh morning air with lively and blithesome feelings, and a few hours afterwards were laid low upon the earth. But we grow affecting; let us proceed.

In plain commonplace matter-of-fact, then, it was a fine morning – so fine that you would scarcely have believed that the few months of an English summer had yet flown by. Hedges, fields, and trees, hill and moorland, presented to the eye their ever-varying shades of deep rich green; scarce a leaf had fallen, scarce a sprinkle of yellow mingled with the hues of summer, warned you that autumn had begun. The sky was cloudless; the sun shone out bright and warm; the songs of birds, and hum of myriads of summer insects, filled the air; and the cottage gardens, crowded with flowers of every rich and beautiful tint, sparkled in the heavy dew, like beds of glittering jewels. Everything bore the stamp of summer, and none of its beautiful colours had yet faded from the dye.

Such was the morning, when an open carriage, in which were three Pickwickians (Mr. Snodgrass having preferred to remain at home), Mr. Wardle, and Mr. Trundle, with Sam Weller on the box beside the driver, pulled up by a gate at the roadside, before which stood a tall, raw-boned gamekeeper, and a half-booted, leather-legginged boy: each bearing a bag of capacious dimensions, and accompanied by a brace of pointers.

“I say,” whispered Mr. Winkle to Wardle, as the man let down the steps, “they don’t suppose we’re going to kill game enough to fill those bags, do they?”

“Fill them!” exclaimed old Wardle. “Bless you, yes! You shall fill one, and I the other; and when we’ve done with them, the pockets of our shooting-jackets will hold as much more.”

Mr. Winkle dismounted without saying anything in reply to this observation; but he thought within himself, that if the party remained in the open air, until he had filled one of the bags, they stood a considerable chance of catching colds in their heads.

“Hi, Juno, lass – hi, old girl; down, Daph, down,” said Wardle, caressing the dogs. “Sir Geoffrey still in Scotland, of course, Martin?”

The tall gamekeeper replied in the affirmative, and looked with some surprise from Mr. Winkle, who was holding his gun as if he wished his coat pocket to save him the trouble of pulling the trigger, to Mr. Tupman, who was holding his as if he were afraid of it – as there is no earthly reason to doubt he really was.

“My friends are not much in the way of this sort of thing yet, Martin,” said Wardle, noticing the look. “Live and learn, you know. They’ll be good shots one of these days. I beg my friend Winkle’s pardon, though; he has had some practice.”

Mr. Winkle smiled feebly over his blue neckerchief in acknowledgment of the compliment, and got himself so mysteriously entangled with his gun, in his modest confusion, that if the piece had been loaded, he must inevitably have shot himself dead upon the spot.

“You mustn’t handle your piece in that ’ere way, when you come to have the charge in it, sir,” said the tall gamekeeper, gruffly, “or I’m damned if you won’t make cold meat of some of us.”

Mr. Winkle, thus admonished, abruptly altered its position, and in so doing, contrived to bring the barrel into pretty sharp contact with Mr. Weller’s head.

“Hallo!” said Sam, picking up his hat, which had been knocked off, and rubbing his temple. “Hallo, sir! if you comes it this vay, you’ll fill one o’ them bags, and something to spare, at one fire.”

Here the leather-legginged boy laughed very heartily, and then tried to look as if it was somebody else, whereat Mr. Winkle frowned majestically.

“Where did you tell the boy to meet us with the snack, Martin?” inquired Wardle.

“Side of One-tree Hill, at twelve o’clock, sir.”

“That’s not Sir Geoffrey’s land, is it?”

“No, sir; but it’s close by it. It’s Captain Boldwig’s land; but there’ll be nobody to interrupt us, and there’s a fine bit of turf there.”

“Very well,” said old Wardle. “Now the sooner we’re off the better. Will you join us at twelve, then, Pickwick?”

Mr. Pickwick was particularly desirous to view the sport, the more especially as he was rather anxious in respect of Mr. Winkle’s life and limbs. On so inviting a morning, too, it was very tantalising to turn back, and leave his friends to enjoy themselves. It was, therefore, with a very rueful air that he replied —

“Why, I suppose I must.”

“An’t the gentleman a shot, sir?” inquired the long gamekeeper.

“No,” replied Wardle; “and he’s lame besides.”

“I should very much like to go,” said Mr. Pickwick, “very much.”

There was a short pause of commiseration.

“There’s a barrow t’other side the hedge,” said the boy. “If the gentleman’s servant would wheel along the paths, he could keep nigh us, and we could lift it over the stiles, and that.”

“The wery thing,” said Mr. Weller, who was a party interested, inasmuch as he ardently longed to see the sport. “The wery thing. Well said, Smallcheck; I’ll have it out in a minute.”

But here a difficulty arose. The long gamekeeper resolutely protested against the introduction into a shooting party, of a gentleman in a barrow, as a gross violation of all established rules and precedents.

It was a great objection, but not an insurmountable one. The gamekeeper having been coaxed and fee’d, and having, moreover, eased his mind by “punching” the head of the inventive youth who had first suggested the use of the machine, Mr. Pickwick was placed in it, and off the party set; Wardle and the long gamekeeper leading the way, and Mr. Pickwick in the barrow, propelled by Sam, bringing up the rear.

“Stop, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, when they had got half across the first field.

“What’s the matter now?” said Wardle.

“I won’t suffer this barrow to be moved another step,” said Mr. Pickwick, resolutely, “unless Winkle carries that gun of his in a different manner.”

“How am I to carry it?” said the wretched Winkle.

“Carry it with the muzzle to the ground,” replied Mr. Pickwick.

“It’s so unsportsman-like,” reasoned Winkle.

“I don’t care whether it’s unsportsman-like or not,” replied Mr. Pickwick; “I am not going to be shot in a wheelbarrow, for the sake of appearances, to please anybody.”

“I know the gentleman ’ll put that ’ere charge into somebody afore he’s done,” growled the long man.

“Well, well – I don’t mind,” said poor Winkle, turning his gun-stock uppermost; – “there.”

“Anythin’ for a quiet life,” said Mr. Weller; and on they went again.

“Stop!” said Mr. Pickwick, after they had gone a few yards further.

“What now?” said Wardle.

“That gun of Tupman’s is not safe: I know it isn’t,” said Mr. Pickwick.

“Eh? What! not safe?” said Mr. Tupman, in a tone of great alarm.

“Not as you are carrying it,” said Mr. Pickwick. “I am very sorry to make any further objection, but I cannot consent to go on, unless you carry it as Winkle does his.”

“I think you had better, sir,” said the long gamekeeper, “or you’re quite as likely to lodge the charge in yourself as in anything else.”

Mr. Tupman, with the most obliging haste, placed his piece in the position required, and the party moved on again; the two amateurs marching with reversed arms, like a couple of privates at a royal funeral.

The dogs suddenly came to a dead stop, and the party advancing stealthily a single pace, stopped too.

“What’s the matter with the dogs’ legs?” whispered Mr. Winkle. “How queer they’re standing.”

“Hush, can’t you?” replied Wardle, softly. “Don’t you see, they’re making a point?”

“Making a point!” said Mr. Winkle, staring about him, as if he expected to discover some particular beauty in the landscape, which the sagacious animals were calling special attention to. “Making a point! What are they pointing at?”

“Keep your eyes open,” said Wardle, not heeding the question in the excitement of the moment. “Now then.”

There was a sharp whirring noise, that made Mr. Winkle start back as if he had been shot himself. Bang, bang, went a couple of guns; – the smoke swept quickly away over the field, and curled into the air.

“Where are they?” said Mr. Winkle, in a state of the highest excitement, turning round and round in all directions. “Where are they? Tell me when to fire. Where are they – where are they?”

“Where are they?” said Wardle, taking up a brace of birds which the dogs had deposited at his feet. “Why, here they are.”

“No, no; I mean the others,” said the bewildered Winkle.

“Far enough off, by this time,” replied Wardle, coolly re-loading his gun.

“We shall very likely be up with another covey in five minutes,” said the long gamekeeper. “If the gentleman begins to fire now, perhaps he’ll just get the shot out of the barrel by the time they rise.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Mr. Weller.

“Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, compassionating his follower’s confusion and embarrassment.

“Sir?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“Certainly not, sir.” So, by way of indemnification, Mr. Weller contorted his features from behind the wheelbarrow, for the exclusive amusement of the boy with the leggings, who thereupon burst into a boisterous laugh, and was summarily cuffed by the long gamekeeper, who wanted a pretext for turning round, to hide his own merriment.

“Bravo, old fellow!” said Wardle to Mr. Tupman; “you fired that time, at all events.”

“Oh yes,” replied Mr. Tupman, with conscious pride. “I let it off.”

“Well done. You’ll hit something next time, if you look sharp. Very easy, an’t it?”

“Yes, it’s very easy,” said Mr. Tupman. “How it hurts one’s shoulder, though. It nearly knocked me backwards. I had no idea that these small fire-arms kicked so.”

“Ah,” said the old gentleman, smiling; “you’ll get used to it in time. Now then – all ready – all right with the barrow there?”

“All right, sir,” replied Mr. Weller.

“Come along then.”

“Hold hard, sir,” said Sam, raising the barrow.

“Ay, ay,” replied Mr. Pickwick; and on they went, as briskly as need be.

“Keep that barrow back now,” cried Wardle when it had been hoisted over a stile into another field, and Mr. Pickwick had been deposited in it once more.

“All right, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, pausing.

“Now, Winkle,” said the old gentleman, “follow me softly, and don’t be too late this time.”

“Never fear,” said Mr. Winkle. “Are they pointing?”

“No, no; not now. Quietly now, quietly.” On they crept, and very quietly they would have advanced, if Mr. Winkle, in the performance of some very intricate evolutions with his gun, had not accidentally fired, at the most critical moment, over the boy’s head, exactly in the very spot where the tall man’s brain would have been, had he been there instead.

“Why, what on earth did you do that for?” said old Wardle, as the birds flew unharmed away.

“I never saw such a gun in my life,” replied poor Mr. Winkle, looking at the lock, as if that would do any good. “It goes off of its own accord. It will do it.”

“Will do it!” echoed Wardle, with something of irritation in his manner. “I wish it would kill something of its own accord.”

“It’ll do that afore long, sir,” observed the tall man, in a low, prophetic voice.

“What do you mean by that observation, sir?” inquired Mr. Winkle, angrily.

“Never mind, sir, never mind,” replied the long gamekeeper; “I’ve no family myself, sir; and this here boy’s mother will get something handsome from Sir Geoffrey, if he’s killed on his land. Load again, sir, load again.”

“Take away his gun,” cried Mr. Pickwick from the barrow, horror-stricken at the long man’s dark insinuations. “Take away his gun, do you hear, somebody?”

Nobody, however, volunteered to obey the command; and Mr. Winkle, after darting a rebellious glance at Mr. Pickwick, reloaded his gun, and proceeded onwards with the rest.

We are bound, on the authority of Mr. Pickwick, to state that Mr. Tupman’s mode of proceeding evinced far more of prudence and deliberation, than that adopted by Mr. Winkle. Still, this by no means detracts from the great authority of the latter gentleman, on all matters connected with the field; because, as Mr. Pickwick beautifully observes, it has somehow or other happened, from time immemorial, that many of the best and ablest philosophers, who have been perfect lights of science in matters of theory, have been wholly unable to reduce them to practice.

Mr. Tupman’s process, like many of our most sublime discoveries, was extremely simple. With the quickness and penetration of a man of genius, he had once observed that the two great points to be obtained were – first, to discharge his piece without injury to himself, and, secondly, to do so without danger to the by-standers; – obviously, the best thing to do, after surmounting the difficulty of firing at all, was to shut his eyes firmly, and fire into the air.

On one occasion, after performing this feat, Mr. Tupman, on opening his eyes, beheld a plump partridge in the act of falling wounded to the ground. He was on the point of congratulating Mr. Wardle on his invariable success, when that gentleman advanced towards him, and grasped him warmly by the hand.

“Tupman,” said the old gentleman, “you singled out that particular bird?”

“No,” said Mr. Tupman – “no.”

“You did,” said Wardle. “I saw you do it – I observed you pick him out – I noticed you, as you raised your piece to take aim; and I will say this, that the best shot in existence could not have done it more beautifully. You are an older hand at this, than I thought you, Tupman; you have been out before.”

It was in vain for Mr. Tupman to protest, with a smile of self-denial, that he never had. The very smile was taken as evidence to the contrary; and from that time forth, his reputation was established. It is not the only reputation that has been acquired as easily, nor are such fortunate circumstances confined to partridge-shooting.

Meanwhile, Mr. Winkle flashed, and blazed, and smoked away, without producing any material results worthy of being noted down; sometimes expending his charge in mid-air, and at others sending it skimming along so near the surface of the ground as to place the lives of the two dogs on a rather uncertain and precarious tenure. As a display of fancy shooting, it was extremely varied and curious; as an exhibition of firing with any precise object, it was, upon the whole, perhaps a failure. It is an established axiom, that “every bullet has its billet.” If it apply in an equal degree to shot, those of Mr. Winkle were unfortunate foundlings, deprived of their natural rights, cast loose upon the world, and billeted nowhere.

“Well,” said Wardle, walking up to the side of the barrow, and wiping the streams of perspiration from his jolly red face; “smoking day, isn’t it?”

“It is, indeed,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “The sun is tremendously hot, even to me. I don’t know how you must feel it.”

“Why,” said the old gentleman, “pretty hot. It’s past twelve, though. You see that green hill there?”

“Certainly.”

“That’s the place where we are to lunch; and, by Jove, there’s the boy with the basket, punctual as clockwork!”

“So he is,” said Mr. Pickwick, brightening up. “Good boy, that. I’ll give him a shilling presently. Now, then, Sam, wheel away.”

“Hold on, sir,” said Mr. Weller, invigorated with the prospect of refreshments. “Out of the way, young leathers. If you walley my precious life don’t upset me, as the gen’l’m’n said to the driver when they was a carryin’ him to Tyburn.” And quickening his pace to a sharp run, Mr. Weller wheeled his master nimbly to the green hill, shot him dexterously out by the very side of the basket, and proceeded to unpack it with the utmost despatch.

“Weal pie,” said Mr. Weller, soliloquising, as he arranged the eatables on the grass. “Wery good thing is weal pie, when you know the lady as made it, and is quite sure it an’t kittens; and arter all though, where’s the odds, when they’re so like weal that the wery piemen themselves don’t know the difference?”

“Don’t they, Sam?” said Mr. Pickwick.

“Not they, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat. “I lodged in the same house vith a pieman once, sir, and a wery nice man he was – reg’lar clever chap, too – make pies out o’ anything, he could. ‘What a number o’ cats you keep, Mr. Brooks,’ says I, when I’d got intimate with him. ‘Ah,’ says he, ‘I do – a good many,’ says he. ‘You must be wery fond o’ cats,’ says I. ‘Other people is,’ says he, a vinkin’ at me; ‘they an’t in season till the winter though,’ says he. ‘Not in season!’ says I. ‘No,’ says he, ‘fruits is in, cats is out.’ ‘Why, what do you mean?’ says I. ‘Mean?’ says he. ‘That I’ll never be a party to the combination o’ the butchers, to keep up the prices o’ meat,’ says he. ‘Mr. Weller,’ says he, a squeezing my hand wery hard, and vispering in my ear – ‘don’t mention this here agin – but it’s the seasonin’ as does it. They’re all made o’ them noble animals,’ says he, a pointin’ to a wery nice little tabby kitten, ‘and I seasons ‘em for beef-steak, weal, or kidney, ‘cordin’ to the demand. And more than that,’ says he, ‘I can make a weal a beef-steak, or a beef-steak a kidney, or any one on ’em a mutton, at a minute’s notice, just as the market changes, and appetites wary!’”

“He must have been a very ingenious young man, that, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, with a slight shudder.

“Just was, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, continuing his occupation of emptying the basket, “and the pies was beautiful. Tongue; well that’s a wery good thing when it an’t a woman’s. Bread – knuckle o’ ham, reg’lar picter – cold beef in slices, wery good. What’s in them stone jars, young touch-and-go?”

“Beer in this one,” replied the boy, taking from his shoulder a couple of large stone bottles, fastened together by a leathern strap – “cold punch in t’other.”