Chapter XXXVII

HONOURABLY ACCOUNTS FOR Mr. WELLER’S

ABSENCE, BY DESCRIBING A SOIREE TO

WHICH HE WAS INVITED AND WENT; ALSO

RELATES HOW HE WAS ENTRUSTED BY Mr.

PICKWICK WITH A PRIVATE MISSION OF

DELICACY AND IMPORTANCE

r. Weller,’ said Mrs. Craddock, upon the morning of

this very eventful day, ‘here’s a letter for you.’

‘Wery odd that,’ said Sam; ‘I’m afeerd there must

be somethin’ the matter, for I don’t recollect any gen’l’m’n in my

circle of acquaintance as is capable o’ writin’ one.’

‘Perhaps something uncommon has taken place,’ observed Mrs.

Craddock.

‘It must be somethin’ wery uncommon indeed, as could perduce

a letter out o’ any friend o’ mine,’ replied Sam, shaking his head

dubiously; ‘nothin’ less than a nat’ral conwulsion, as the young

gen’l’m’n observed ven he wos took with fits. It can’t be from the

gov’ner,’ said Sam, looking at the direction. ‘He always prints, I

know, ’cos he learnt writin’ from the large bills in the booking-

offices. It’s a wery strange thing now, where this here letter can

ha’ come from.’

As Sam said this, he did what a great many people do when

they are uncertain about the writer of a note―looked at the seal,

and then at the front, and then at the back, and then at the sides,

and then at the superscription; and, as a last resource, thought

perhaps he might as well look at the inside, and try to find out

from that.

‘It’s wrote on gilt-edged paper,’ said Sam, as he unfolded it,

‘and sealed in bronze vax vith the top of a door key. Now for it.’

And, with a very grave face, Mr. Weller slowly read as follows―

‘A select company of the Bath footmen presents their

compliments to Mr. Weller, and requests the pleasure of his

company this evening, to a friendly swarry, consisting of a boiled

leg of mutton with the usual trimmings. The swarry to be on table

at half-past nine o’clock punctually.’

This was inclosed in another note, which ran thus―

‘Mr. John Smauker, the gentleman who had the pleasure of

meeting Mr. Weller at the house of their mutual acquaintance, Mr.

Bantam, a few days since, begs to inclose Mr. Weller the herewith

invitation. If Mr. Weller will call on Mr. John Smauker at nine

o’clock, Mr. John Smauker will have the pleasure of introducing

Mr. Weller.

(Signed) ‘JOHN SMAUKER.’

The envelope was directed to blank Weller, Esq., at Mr.

Pickwick’s; and in a parenthesis, in the left hand corner, were the

words ‘airy bell,’ as an instruction to the bearer.

‘Vell,’ said Sam, ‘this is comin’ it rayther powerful, this is. I

never heerd a biled leg o’ mutton called a swarry afore. I wonder

wot they’d call a roast one.’

However, without waiting to debate the point, Sam at once

betook himself into the presence of Mr. Pickwick, and requested

leave of absence for that evening, which was readily granted. With

this permission and the street-door key, Sam Weller issued forth a

little before the appointed time, and strolled leisurely towards

Queen Square, which he no sooner gained than he had the

satisfaction of beholding Mr. John Smauker leaning his powdered

head against a lamp-post at a short distance off, smoking a cigar

through an amber tube.

‘How do you do, Mr. Weller?’ said Mr. John Smauker, raising

his hat gracefully with one hand, while he gently waved the other

in a condescending manner. ‘How do you do, sir?’

‘Why, reasonably conwalessent,’ replied Sam. ‘How do you find

yourself, my dear feller?’

‘Only so so,’ said Mr. John Smauker.

‘Ah, you’ve been a-workin’ too hard,’ observed Sam. ‘I was

fearful you would; it won’t do, you know; you must not give way to

that ’ere uncompromisin’ spirit o’ yourn.’

‘It’s not so much that, Mr. Weller,’ replied Mr. John Smauker,

‘as bad wine; I’m afraid I’ve been dissipating.’

‘Oh! that’s it, is it?’ said Sam; ‘that’s a wery bad complaint,

that.’

‘And yet the temptation, you see, Mr. Weller,’ observed Mr.

John Smauker.

‘Ah, to be sure,’ said Sam.

‘Plunged into the very vortex of society, you know, Mr. Weller,’

said Mr. John Smauker, with a sigh.

‘Dreadful, indeed!’ rejoined Sam.

‘But it’s always the way,’ said Mr. John Smauker; ‘if your

destiny leads you into public life, and public station, you must

expect to be subjected to temptations which other people is free

from, Mr. Weller.’

‘Precisely what my uncle said, ven he vent into the public line,’

remarked Sam, ‘and wery right the old gen’l’m’n wos, for he drank

hisself to death in somethin’ less than a quarter.’ Mr. John

Smauker looked deeply indignant at any parallel being drawn

between himself and the deceased gentleman in question; but, as

Sam’s face was in the most immovable state of calmness, he

thought better of it, and looked affable again. ‘Perhaps we had

better be walking,’ said Mr. Smauker, consulting a copper

timepiece which dwelt at the bottom of a deep watch-pocket, and

was raised to the surface by means of a black string, with a copper

key at the other end.

‘P’raps we had,’ replied Sam, ‘or they’ll overdo the swarry, and

that’ll spile it.’

‘Have you drank the waters, Mr. Weller?’ inquired his

companion, as they walked towards High Street.

‘Once,’ replied Sam.

‘What did you think of ’em, sir?’

‘I thought they was particklery unpleasant,’ replied Sam.

‘Ah,’ said Mr. John Smauker, ‘you disliked the killibeate taste,

perhaps?’

‘I don’t know much about that ’ere,’ said Sam. ‘I thought they’d

a wery strong flavour o’ warm flat irons.’

‘That is the killibeate, Mr. Weller,’ observed Mr. John Smauker

contemptuously.

‘Well, if it is, it’s a wery inexpressive word, that’s all,’ said Sam.

‘It may be, but I ain’t much in the chimical line myself, so I can’t

say.’ And here, to the great horror of Mr. John Smauker, Sam

Weller began to whistle.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Weller,’ said Mr. John Smauker,

agonised at the exceeding ungenteel sound, ‘will you take my

arm?’

‘Thank’ee, you’re wery good, but I won’t deprive you of it,’

replied Sam. ‘I’ve rayther a way o’ putting my hands in my

pockets, if it’s all the same to you.’ As Sam said this, he suited the

action to the word, and whistled far louder than before.

‘This way,’ said his new friend, apparently much relieved as

they turned down a by-street; ‘we shall soon be there.’

‘Shall we?’ said Sam, quite unmoved by the announcement of

his close vicinity to the select footmen of Bath.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. John Smauker. ‘Don’t be alarmed, Mr. Weller.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Sam.

‘You’ll see some very handsome uniforms, Mr. Weller,’

continued Mr. John Smauker; ‘and perhaps you’ll find some of the

gentlemen rather high at first, you know, but they’ll soon come

round.’

‘That’s wery kind on ’em,’ replied Sam. ‘And you know,’

resumed Mr. John Smauker, with an air of sublime protection―

‘you know, as you’re a stranger, perhaps, they’ll be rather hard

upon you at first.’

‘They won’t be wery cruel, though, will they?’ inquired Sam.

‘No, no,’ replied Mr. John Smauker, pulling forth the fox’s head,

and taking a gentlemanly pinch. ‘There are some funny dogs

among us, and they will have their joke, you know; but you

mustn’t mind ’em, you mustn’t mind ’em.’

‘I’ll try and bear up agin such a reg’lar knock down o’ talent,’

replied Sam.

‘That’s right,’ said Mr. John Smauker, putting forth his fox’s

head, and elevating his own; ‘I’ll stand by you.’

By this time they had reached a small greengrocer’s shop,

which Mr. John Smauker entered, followed by Sam, who, the

moment he got behind him, relapsed into a series of the very

broadest and most unmitigated grins, and manifested other

demonstrations of being in a highly enviable state of inward

merriment.

Crossing the greengrocer’s shop, and putting their hats on the

stairs in the little passage behind it, they walked into a small

parlour; and here the full splendour of the scene burst upon Mr.

Weller’s view.

A couple of tables were put together in the middle of the

parlour, covered with three or four cloths of different ages and

dates of washing, arranged to look as much like one as the

circumstances of the case would allow. Upon these were laid

knives and forks for six or eight people. Some of the knife handles

were green, others red, and a few yellow; and as all the forks were

black, the combination of colours was exceedingly striking. Plates

for a corresponding number of guests were warming behind the

fender; and the guests themselves were warming before it: the

chief and most important of whom appeared to be a stoutish

gentleman in a bright crimson coat with long tails, vividly red

breeches, and a cocked hat, who was standing with his back to the

fire, and had apparently just entered, for besides retaining his

cocked hat on his head, he carried in his hand a high stick, such as

gentlemen of his profession usually elevate in a sloping position

over the roofs of carriages.

‘Smauker, my lad, your fin,’ said the gentleman with the cocked

hat.

Mr. Smauker dovetailed the top joint of his right-hand little

finger into that of the gentleman with the cocked hat, and said he

was charmed to see him looking so well.

‘Well, they tell me I am looking pretty blooming,’ said the man

with the cocked hat, ‘and it’s a wonder, too. I’ve been following our

old woman about, two hours a day, for the last fortnight; and if a

constant contemplation of the manner in which she hooks-and-

eyes that infernal lavender-coloured old gown of hers behind, isn’t

enough to throw anybody into a low state of despondency for life,

stop my quarter’s salary.’

At this, the assembled selections laughed very heartily; and one

gentleman in a yellow waistcoat, with a coach-trimming border,

whispered a neighbour in green-foil smalls, that Tuckle was in

spirits to-night.

‘By the bye,’ said Mr. Tuckle, ‘Smauker, my boy, you―’ The

remainder of the sentence was forwarded into Mr. John

Smauker’s ear, by whisper.

‘Oh, dear me, I quite forgot,’ said Mr. John Smauker.

‘Gentlemen, my friend Mr. Weller.’

‘Sorry to keep the fire off you, Weller,’ said Mr. Tuckle, with a

familiar nod. ‘Hope you’re not cold, Weller.’

‘Not by no means, Blazes,’ replied Sam. ‘It ’ud be a wery chilly

subject as felt cold wen you stood opposite. You’d save coals if they

put you behind the fender in the waitin’-room at a public office,

you would.’

As this retort appeared to convey rather a personal allusion to

Mr. Tuckle’s crimson livery, that gentleman looked majestic for a

few seconds, but gradually edging away from the fire, broke into a

forced smile, and said it wasn’t bad.

‘Wery much obliged for your good opinion, sir,’ replied Sam.

‘We shall get on by degrees, I des-say. We’ll try a better one by and

bye.’

At this point the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of

a gentleman in orange-coloured plush, accompanied by another

selection in purple cloth, with a great extent of stocking. The new-

comers having been welcomed by the old ones, Mr. Tuckle put the

question that supper be ordered in, which was carried

unanimously.

The greengrocer and his wife then arranged upon the table a

boiled leg of mutton, hot, with caper sauce, turnips, and potatoes.

Mr. Tuckle took the chair, and was supported at the other end of

the board by the gentleman in orange plush. The greengrocer put

on a pair of wash-leather gloves to hand the plates with, and

stationed himself behind Mr. Tuckle’s chair.

‘Harris,’ said Mr. Tuckle, in a commanding tone.

‘Sir,’ said the greengrocer.

‘Have you got your gloves on?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then take the kiver off.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The greengrocer did as he was told, with a show of great

humility, and obsequiously handed Mr. Tuckle the carving-knife;

in doing which, he accidentally gaped.

‘What do you mean by that, sir?’ said Mr. Tuckle, with great

asperity.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ replied the crestfallen greengrocer, ‘I

didn’t mean to do it, sir; I was up very late last night, sir.’

‘I tell you what my opinion of you is, Harris,’ said Mr. Tuckle,

with a most impressive air, ‘you’re a wulgar beast.’

‘I hope, gentlemen,’ said Harris, ‘that you won’t be severe with

me, gentlemen. I am very much obliged to you indeed, gentlemen,

for your patronage, and also for your recommendations,

gentlemen, whenever additional assistance in waiting is required.

I hope, gentlemen, I give satisfaction.’

‘No, you don’t, sir,’ said Mr. Tuckle. ‘Very far from it, sir.’

‘We consider you an inattentive reskel,’ said the gentleman in

the orange plush.

‘And a low thief,’ added the gentleman in the green-foil smalls.

‘And an unreclaimable blaygaird,’ added the gentleman in

purple.

The poor greengrocer bowed very humbly while these little

epithets were bestowed upon him, in the true spirit of the very

smallest tyranny; and when everybody had said something to

show his superiority, Mr. Tuckle proceeded to carve the leg of

mutton, and to help the company.

This important business of the evening had hardly commenced,

when the door was thrown briskly open, and another gentleman in

a light-blue suit, and leaden buttons, made his appearance.

‘Against the rules,’ said Mr. Tuckle. ‘Too late, too late.’

‘No, no; positively I couldn’t help it,’ said the gentleman in blue.

‘I appeal to the company. An affair of gallantry now, an

appointment at the theayter.’

‘Oh, that indeed,’ said the gentleman in the orange plush.

‘Yes; raly now, honour bright,’ said the man in blue. ‘I made a

promese to fetch our youngest daughter at half-past ten, and she is

such an uncauminly fine gal, that I raly hadn’t the ’art to disappint

her. No offence to the present company, sir, but a petticut, sir―a

petticut, sir, is irrevokeable.’

‘I begin to suspect there’s something in that quarter,’ said

Tuckle, as the new-comer took his seat next Sam, ‘I’ve remarked,

once or twice, that she leans very heavy on your shoulder when

she gets in and out of the carriage.’

‘Oh, raly, raly, Tuckle, you shouldn’t,’ said the man in blue. ‘It’s

not fair. I may have said to one or two friends that she wos a very

divine creechure, and had refused one or two offers without any

hobvus cause, but―no, no, no, indeed, Tuckle―before strangers,

too―it’s not right―you shouldn’t. Delicacy, my dear friend,

delicacy!’ And the man in blue, pulling up his neckerchief, and

adjusting his coat cuffs, nodded and frowned as if there were more

behind, which he could say if he liked, but was bound in honour to

suppress.

The man in blue being a light-haired, stiff-necked, free and easy

sort of footman, with a swaggering air and pert face, had attracted

Mr. Weller’s special attention at first, but when he began to come

out in this way, Sam felt more than ever disposed to cultivate his

acquaintance; so he launched himself into the conversation at

once, with characteristic independence.

‘Your health, sir,’ said Sam. ‘I like your conversation much. I

think it’s wery pretty.’

At this the man in blue smiled, as if it were a compliment he

was well used to; but looked approvingly on Sam at the same time,

and said he hoped he should be better acquainted with him, for

without any flattery at all he seemed to have the makings of a very

nice fellow about him, and to be just the man after his own heart.

‘You’re wery good, sir,’ said Sam. ‘What a lucky feller you are!’

‘How do you mean?’ inquired the gentleman in blue.

The Pickwick Papers

‘That ’ere young lady,’ replied Sam.’ She knows wot’s wot, she

does. Ah! I see.’ Mr. Weller closed one eye, and shook his head

from side to side, in a manner which was highly gratifying to the

personal vanity of the gentleman in blue.

‘I’m afraid your a cunning fellow, Mr. Weller,’ said that

individual.

‘No, no,’ said Sam. ‘I leave all that ’ere to you. It’s a great deal

more in your way than mine, as the gen’l’m’n on the right side o’

the garden vall said to the man on the wrong un, ven the mad bull

vos a-comin’ up the lane.’

‘Well, well, Mr. Weller,’ said the gentleman in blue, ‘I think she

has remarked my air and manner, Mr. Weller.’

‘I should think she couldn’t wery well be off o’ that,’ said Sam.

‘Have you any little thing of that kind in hand, sir?’ inquired the

favoured gentleman in blue, drawing a toothpick from his

waistcoat pocket.

‘Not exactly,’ said Sam. ‘There’s no daughters at my place, else

o’ course I should ha’ made up to vun on ’em. As it is, I don’t think

I can do with anythin’ under a female markis. I might keep up

with a young ‘ooman o’ large property as hadn’t a title, if she made

wery fierce love to me. Not else.’

‘Of course not, Mr. Weller,’ said the gentleman in blue, ‘one

can’t be troubled, you know; and WE know, Mr. Weller―we, who

are men of the world―that a good uniform must work its way with

the women, sooner or later. In fact, that’s the only thing, between

you and me, that makes the service worth entering into.’

‘Just so,’ said Sam. ‘That’s it, o’ course.’

When this confidential dialogue had gone thus far, glasses were

placed round, and every gentleman ordered what he liked best,

before the public-house shut up. The gentleman in blue, and the

man in orange, who were the chief exquisites of the party, ordered

‘cold shrub and water,’ but with the others, gin-and-water, sweet,

appeared to be the favourite beverage. Sam called the greengrocer

a ‘desp’rate willin,’ and ordered a large bowl of punch―two

circumstances which seemed to raise him very much in the

opinion of the selections.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the man in blue, with an air of the most

consummate dandyism, ‘I’ll give you the ladies; come.’

‘Hear, hear!’ said Sam. ‘The young mississes.’

Here there was a loud cry of ‘Order,’ and Mr. John Smauker, as

the gentleman who had introduced Mr. Weller into that company,

begged to inform him that the word he had just made use of, was

unparliamentary.

‘Which word was that ’ere, sir?’ inquired Sam. ‘Mississes, sir,’

replied Mr. John Smauker, with an alarming frown. ‘We don’t

recognise such distinctions here.’

‘Oh, wery good,’ said Sam; ‘then I’ll amend the obserwation and

call ’em the dear creeturs, if Blazes vill allow me.’

Some doubt appeared to exist in the mind of the gentleman in

the green-foil smalls, whether the chairman could be legally

appealed to, as ‘Blazes,’ but as the company seemed more

disposed to stand upon their own rights than his, the question was

not raised. The man with the cocked hat breathed short, and

looked long at Sam, but apparently thought it as well to say

nothing, in case he should get the worst of it. After a short silence,

a gentleman in an embroidered coat reaching down to his heels,

and a waistcoat of the same which kept one half of his legs warm,

stirred his gin-and-water with great energy, and putting himself

upon his feet, all at once by a violent effort, said he was desirous of

offering a few remarks to the company, whereupon the person in

the cocked hat had no doubt that the company would be very

happy to hear any remarks that the man in the long coat might

wish to offer.

‘I feel a great delicacy, gentlemen, in coming for’ard,’ said the

man in the long coat, ‘having the misforchune to be a coachman,

and being only admitted as a honorary member of these agreeable

swarrys, but I do feel myself bound, gentlemen―drove into a

corner, if I may use the expression―to make known an afflicting

circumstance which has come to my knowledge; which has

happened I may say within the soap of my everyday

contemplation. Gentlemen, our friend Mr. Whiffers (everybody

looked at the individual in orange), our friend Mr. Whiffers has

resigned.’

Universal astonishment fell upon the hearers. Each gentleman

looked in his neighbour’s face, and then transferred his glance to

the upstanding coachman.

‘You may well be sapparised, gentlemen,’ said the coachman. ‘I

will not wenchure to state the reasons of this irrepairabel loss to

the service, but I will beg Mr. Whiffers to state them himself, for

the improvement and imitation of his admiring friends.’

The suggestion being loudly approved of, Mr. Whiffers

explained. He said he certainly could have wished to have

continued to hold the appointment he had just resigned. The

uniform was extremely rich and expensive, the females of the

family was most agreeable, and the duties of the situation was not,

he was bound to say, too heavy; the principal service that was

required of him, being, that he should look out of the hall window

as much as possible, in company with another gentleman, who had

also resigned. He could have wished to have spared that company

the painful and disgusting detail on which he was about to enter,

but as the explanation had been demanded of him, he had no

alternative but to state, boldly and distinctly, that he had been

required to eat cold meat.

It is impossible to conceive the disgust which this avowal

awakened in the bosoms of the hearers. Loud cries of ‘Shame,’

mingled with groans and hisses, prevailed for a quarter of an hour.

Mr. Whiffers then added that he feared a portion of this outrage

might be traced to his own forbearing and accommodating

disposition. He had a distinct recollection of having once

consented to eat salt butter, and he had, moreover, on an occasion

of sudden sickness in the house, so far forgotten himself as to

carry a coal-scuttle up to the second floor. He trusted he had not

lowered himself in the good opinion of his friends by this frank

confession of his faults; and he hoped the promptness with which

he had resented the last unmanly outrage on his feelings, to which

he had referred, would reinstate him in their good opinion, if he

had.

Mr. Whiffers’s address was responded to, with a shout of

admiration, and the health of the interesting martyr was drunk in

a most enthusiastic manner; for this, the martyr returned thanks,

and proposed their visitor, Mr. Weller―a gentleman whom he had

not the pleasure of an intimate acquaintance with, but who was

the friend of Mr. John Smauker, which was a sufficient letter of

recommendation to any society of gentlemen whatever, or

wherever. On this account, he should have been disposed to have

given Mr. Weller’s health with all the honours, if his friends had

been drinking wine; but as they were taking spirits by way of a

change, and as it might be inconvenient to empty a tumbler at

every toast, he should propose that the honours be understood.

At the conclusion of this speech, everybody took a sip in honour

of Sam; and Sam having ladled out, and drunk, two full glasses of

punch in honour of himself, returned thanks in a neat speech.

‘Wery much obliged to you, old fellers,’ said Sam, ladling away

at the punch in the most unembarrassed manner possible, ‘for this

here compliment; which, comin’ from sich a quarter, is wery

overvelmin’. I’ve heered a good deal on you as a body, but I will

say, that I never thought you was sich uncommon nice men as I

find you air. I only hope you’ll take care o’ yourselves, and not

compromise nothin’ o’ your dignity, which is a wery charmin’

thing to see, when one’s out a-walkin’, and has always made me

wery happy to look at, ever since I was a boy about half as high as

the brass-headed stick o’ my wery respectable friend, Blazes,

there. As to the wictim of oppression in the suit o’ brimstone, all I

can say of him, is, that I hope he’ll get jist as good a berth as he

deserves; in vitch case it’s wery little cold swarry as ever he’ll be

troubled with agin.’

Here Sam sat down with a pleasant smile, and his speech

having been vociferously applauded, the company broke up.

‘Wy, you don’t mean to say you’re a-goin’ old feller?’ said Sam

Weller to his friend, Mr. John Smauker.

‘I must, indeed,’ said Mr. Smauker; ‘I promised Bantam.’

‘Oh, wery well,’ said Sam; ‘that’s another thing. P’raps he’d

resign if you disappinted him. You ain’t a-goin’, Blazes?’

‘Yes, I am,’ said the man with the cocked hat. ‘Wot, and leave three-quarters of a bowl of punch behind you!’

said Sam; ‘nonsense, set down agin.’

Mr. Tuckle was not proof against this invitation. He laid aside

the cocked hat and stick which he had just taken up, and said he

would have one glass, for good fellowship’s sake.

As the gentleman in blue went home the same way as Mr.

Tuckle, he was prevailed upon to stop too. When the punch was

about half gone, Sam ordered in some oysters from the green-

grocer’s shop; and the effect of both was so extremely exhilarating,

that Mr. Tuckle, dressed out with the cocked hat and stick, danced

the frog hornpipe among the shells on the table, while the

gentleman in blue played an accompaniment upon an ingenious

musical instrument formed of a hair-comb upon a curl-paper. At

last, when the punch was all gone, and the night nearly so, they

sallied forth to see each other home. Mr. Tuckle no sooner got into

the open air, than he was seized with a sudden desire to lie on the

curbstone; Sam thought it would be a pity to contradict him, and

so let him have his own way. As the cocked hat would have been

spoiled if left there, Sam very considerately flattened it down on

the head of the gentleman in blue, and putting the big stick in his

hand, propped him up against his own street-door, rang the bell,

and walked quietly home.

At a much earlier hour next morning than his usual time of

rising, Mr. Pickwick walked downstairs completely dressed, and

rang the bell.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, when Mr. Weller appeared in reply to

the summons, ‘shut the door.’

Mr. Weller did so.

‘There was an unfortunate occurrence here, last night, Sam,’

said Mr. Pickwick, ‘which gave Mr. Winkle some cause to

apprehend violence from Mr. Dowler.’

‘So I’ve heerd from the old lady downstairs, sir,’ replied Sam.

‘And I’m sorry to say, Sam,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, with a

most perplexed countenance, ‘that in dread of this violence, Mr.

Winkle has gone away.’

‘Gone avay!’ said Sam.

‘Left the house early this morning, without the slightest

previous communication with me,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘And is

gone, I know not where.’

‘He should ha’ stopped and fought it out, sir,’ replied Sam

contemptuously. ‘It wouldn’t take much to settle that ’ere Dowler,

sir.’

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I may have my doubts of his

great bravery and determination also. But however that may be,

Mr. Winkle is gone. He must be found, Sam. Found and brought

back to me.’

‘And s’pose he won’t come back, sir?’ said Sam.

‘He must be made, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Who’s to do it, sir?’ inquired Sam, with a smile.

‘You,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wery good, sir.’

With these words Mr. Weller left the room, and immediately

afterwards was heard to shut the street door. In two hours’ time he

returned with so much coolness as if he had been despatched on

the most ordinary message possible, and brought the information

that an individual, in every respect answering Mr. Winkle’s

description, had gone over to Bristol that morning, by the branch

coach from the Royal Hotel.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, grasping his hand, ‘you’re a capital

fellow; an invaluable fellow. You must follow him, Sam.’

‘Cert’nly, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘The instant you discover him, write to me immediately, Sam,’

said Mr. Pickwick. ‘If he attempts to run away from you, knock

him down, or lock him up. You have my full authority, Sam.’

‘I’ll be wery careful, sir,’ rejoined Sam.

‘You’ll tell him,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that I am highly excited,

highly displeased, and naturally indignant, at the very

extraordinary course he has thought proper to pursue.’

‘I will, sir,’ replied Sam.

‘You’ll tell him,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that if he does not come

back to this very house, with you, he will come back with me, for I

will come and fetch him.’

‘I’ll mention that ’ere, sir,’ rejoined Sam.

‘You think you can find him, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking

earnestly in his face.

‘Oh, I’ll find him if he’s anyvere,’ rejoined Sam, with great

confidence.

‘Very well,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Then the sooner you go the

better.’

With these instructions, Mr. Pickwick placed a sum of money in

the hands of his faithful servitor, and ordered him to start for

Bristol immediately, in pursuit of the fugitive.

Sam put a few necessaries in a carpet-bag, and was ready for

starting. He stopped when he had got to the end of the passage,

and walking quietly back, thrust his head in at the parlour door.

‘Sir,’ whispered Sam.

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I fully understands my instructions, do I, sir?’ inquired Sam.

‘I hope so,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘It’s reg’larly understood about the knockin’ down, is it, sir?’

inquired Sam.

‘Perfectly,’ replied Pickwick. ‘Thoroughly. Do what you think

necessary. You have my orders.’

Sam gave a nod of intelligence, and withdrawing his head from

the door, set forth on his pilgrimage with a light heart.

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