The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. Volume 2 of 2. Чарльз Диккенс
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of his coat, after the most approved manner of actors when they are in domestic pathetics.
Mr. Jackson seemed rather puzzled by Sam’s proceedings; but, as he had served the subpœnas, and had nothing more to say, he made a feint of putting on the one glove which he usually carried in his hand for the sake of appearances; and returned to the office to report progress.
Mr. Pickwick slept little that night; his memory had received a very disagreeable refresher on the subject of Mrs. Bardell’s action. He breakfasted betimes next morning, and, desiring Sam to accompany him, set forth towards Gray’s Inn Square.
“Sam!” said Mr. Pickwick, looking round, when they got to the end of Cheapside.
“Sir?” said Sam, stepping up to his master.
“Which way?”
“Up Newgate Street.”
Mr. Pickwick did not turn round immediately, but looked vacantly in Sam’s face for a few seconds, and heaved a deep sigh.
“What’s the matter, sir?” inquired Sam.
“This action, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, “is expected to come on on the fourteenth of next month.”
“Remarkable coincidence that ’ere, sir,” replied Sam.
“Why remarkable, Sam?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.
“Walentine’s day, sir,” responded Sam; “reg’lar good day for a breach o’ promise trial.”
Mr. Weller’s smile awakened no gleam of mirth in his master’s countenance. Mr. Pickwick turned abruptly round, and led the way in silence.
They had walked some distance: Mr. Pickwick trotting on before, plunged in profound meditation, and Sam following behind, with a countenance expressive of the most enviable and easy defiance of everything and everybody: when the latter, who was always especially anxious to impart to his master any exclusive information he possessed, quickened his pace until he was close at Mr. Pickwick’s heels; and, pointing up at a house they were passing, said:
“Wery nice pork-shop that ’ere, sir.”
“Yes, it seems so,” said Mr. Pickwick.
“Celebrated sassage factory,” said Sam.
“Is it?” said Mr. Pickwick.
“Is it!” reiterated Sam, with some indignation: “I should rayther think it was. Why, sir, bless your innocent eyebrows, that’s where the mysterious disappearance of a ’spectable tradesman took place four year ago.”
“You don’t mean to say he was burked, Sam?” said Mr. Pickwick, looking hastily round.
“No, I don’t indeed, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, “I wish I did; far worse than that. He was the master o’ that ’ere shop, sir, and the inwenter o’ the patent never-leavin’-off sassage steam ingine, as ’ud swaller up a pavin’ stone if you put it too near, and grind it into sassages as easy as if it was a tender young baby. Wery proud o’ that machine he was, as it was nat’ral he should be, and he’d stand down in the cellar a lookin’ at it wen it was in full play, till he got quite melancholy with joy. A wery happy man he’d ha’ been, sir, in the procession o’ that ’ere ingine and two more lovely hinfants besides, if it hadn’t been for his wife, who was a most ow-dacious wixin. She was always a follerin’ him about and dinnin’ in his ears, till at last he couldn’t stand it no longer. ‘I’ll tell you what it is, my dear,’ he says one day; ‘if you persewere in this here sort of amusement,’ he says, ‘I’m blessed if I don’t go away to ’Merriker; and that’s all about it.’ ‘You’re a idle willin,’ says she, ‘and I wish the ‘Merrikins joy of their bargain.’ Arter wich she keeps on abusin’ of him for half an hour, and then runs into the little parlour behind the shop, sets to a screamin’, says he’ll be the death on her, and falls in a fit, which lasts for three good hours – one o’ them fits wich is all screamin’ and kickin’. Well, next mornin’, the husband was missin’. He hadn’t taken nothin’ from the till – hadn’t even put on his great-coat – so it was quite clear he warn’t gone to ’Merriker. Didn’t come back next day; didn’t come back next week; Missis had bills printed, sayin’ that, if he’d come back, he should be forgiven everythin’ (which was very liberal, seein’ that he hadn’t done nothin’ at all); the canals was dragged, and for two months artervards, wenever a body turned up, it was carried, as a reg’lar thing, straight off to the sassage shop. Hows’ever, none on ’em answered; so they gave out that he’d run avay, and she kep’ on the bis’ness. One Saturday night, a little thin old gen’l’m’n comes into the shop in a great passion and says, ‘Are you the missis o’ this here shop?’ ‘Yes, I am,’ says she. ‘Well, ma’am,’ says he, ‘then I’ve just looked in to say that me and my family ain’t a goin’ to be choked for nothin’; and more than that, ma’am,’ he says, ‘you’ll allow me to observe, that as you don’t use the primest parts of the meat in the manafacter o’ sassages, I think you’d find beef come nearly as cheap as buttons.’ ‘As buttons, sir!’ says she. ‘Buttons, ma’am,’ says the little old gen’l’m’n, unfolding a bit of paper, and showing twenty or thirty halves o’ buttons. ‘Nice seasonin’ for sassages, is trousers buttons, ma’am.’ ‘They’re my husband’s buttons!’ says the widder, beginnin’ to faint. ‘What!’ screams the little old gen’l’m’n, turnin’ wery pale. ‘I see it all,’ says the widder; ‘in a fit of temporary insanity he rashly converted his-self into sassages!’ And so he had, sir,” said Mr. Weller, looking steadily into Mr. Pickwick’s horror-stricken countenance, “or else he’d been draw’d into the ingine; but however that might ha’ been, the little old gen’l’m’n, who had been remarkably partial to sassages all his life, rushed out o’ the shop in a wild state, and was never heard on artervards!”
The relation of this affecting incident of private life brought master and man to Mr. Perker’s chambers. Lowten, holding the door half open, was in conversation with a rustily-clad, miserable-looking man, in boots without toes and gloves without fingers. There were traces of privation and suffering – almost of despair – in his lank and careworn countenance; he felt his poverty, for he shrunk to the dark side of the staircase as Mr. Pickwick approached.
“It’s very unfortunate,” said the stranger, with a sigh.
“Very,” said Lowten, scribbling his name on the door-post with his pen, and rubbing it out again with the feather. “Will you leave a message for him?”
“When do you think he’ll be back?” inquired the stranger.
“Quite uncertain,” replied Lowten, winking at Mr. Pickwick, as the stranger cast his eyes towards the ground.
“You don’t think it would be of any use my waiting for him?” said the stranger, looking wistfully into the office.
“Oh no, I’m sure it wouldn’t,” replied the clerk, moving a little more into the centre of the doorway. “He’s certain not to be back this week, and it’s a chance whether he will be next; for when Perker once gets out of town, he’s never in a hurry to come back again.”
“Out of town!” said Mr. Pickwick; “dear me, how unfortunate!”
“Don’t go away, Mr. Pickwick,” said Lowten, “I’ve got a letter for you.” The stranger seeming to hesitate, once more looked towards the ground, and the clerk winked slily at Mr. Pickwick, as if to intimate that some exquisite piece of humour was going forward, though what it was Mr. Pickwick could not for the life of him divine.
“Step in, Mr. Pickwick,” said Lowten. “Well, will you leave a message, Mr. Watty, or will you call again?”
“Ask him to be so kind as to leave out word what has been done in my business,” said the man; “for God’s sake don’t neglect it, Mr. Lowten.”
“No, no; I won’t forget it,” replied the clerk. “Walk in, Mr. Pickwick. Good morning, Mr. Watty; it’s a fine day for walking, isn’t it?” Seeing that the stranger still lingered, he beckoned Sam Weller to follow his master in, and shut