Chapter LI

IN WHICH Mr. PICKWICK ENCOUNTERS AN

OLD ACQUAINTANCE―TO WHICH

FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCE THE READER IS

MAINLY INDEBTED FOR MATTER OF

THRILLING INTEREST HEREIN SET DOWN,

CONCERNING TWO GREAT PUBLIC MEN OF

MIGHT AND POWER

he morning which broke upon Mr. Pickwick’s sight at

eight o’clock, was not at all calculated to elevate his spirits,

or to lessen the depression which the unlooked-for result

of his embassy inspired. The sky was dark and gloomy, the air was

damp and raw, the streets were wet and sloppy. The smoke hung

sluggishly above the chimney-tops as if it lacked the courage to

rise, and the rain came slowly and doggedly down, as if it had not

even the spirit to pour. A game-cock in the stableyard, deprived of

every spark of his accustomed animation, balanced himself

dismally on one leg in a corner; a donkey, moping with drooping

head under the narrow roof of an outhouse, appeared from his

meditative and miserable countenance to be contemplating

suicide. In the street, umbrellas were the only things to be seen,

and the clicking of pattens and splashing of rain-drops were the

only sounds to be heard.

The breakfast was interrupted by very little conversation; even

Mr. Bob Sawyer felt the influence of the weather, and the previous

day’s excitement. In his own expressive language he was ‘floored.’

So was Mr. Ben Allen. So was Mr. Pickwick.

In protracted expectation of the weather clearing up, the last

evening paper from London was read and re-read with an

intensity of interest only known in cases of extreme destitution;

every inch of the carpet was walked over with similar

perseverance; the windows were looked out of, often enough to

justify the imposition of an additional duty upon them; all kinds of

topics of conversation were started, and failed; and at length Mr.

Pickwick, when noon had arrived, without a change for the better,

rang the bell resolutely, and ordered out the chaise.

Although the roads were miry, and the drizzling rain came

down harder than it had done yet, and although the mud and wet

splashed in at the open windows of the carriage to such an extent

that the discomfort was almost as great to the pair of insides as to

the pair of outsides, still there was something in the motion, and

the sense of being up and doing, which was so infinitely superior

to being pent in a dull room, looking at the dull rain dripping into

a dull street, that they all agreed, on starting, that the change was

a great improvement, and wondered how they could possibly have

delayed making it as long as they had done.

When they stopped to change at Coventry, the steam ascended

from the horses in such clouds as wholly to obscure the hostler,

whose voice was however heard to declare from the mist, that he

expected the first gold medal from the Humane Society on their

next distribution of rewards, for taking the postboy’s hat off; the

water descending from the brim of which, the invisible gentleman

declared, must have drowned him (the postboy), but for his great

presence of mind in tearing it promptly from his head, and drying

the gasping man’s countenance with a wisp of straw.

‘This is pleasant,’ said Bob Sawyer, turning up his coat collar,

and pulling the shawl over his mouth to concentrate the fumes of a

glass of brandy just swallowed.

‘Wery,’ replied Sam composedly.

‘You don’t seem to mind it,’ observed Bob.

‘Vy, I don’t exactly see no good my mindin’ on it ‘ud do, sir,’

replied Sam.

‘That’s an unanswerable reason, anyhow,’ said Bob.

‘Yes, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. ‘Wotever is, is right, as the young

nobleman sweetly remarked wen they put him down in the

pension list ’cos his mother’s uncle’s vife’s grandfather vunce lit

the king’s pipe vith a portable tinder-box.’

‘Not a bad notion that, Sam,’ said Mr. Bob Sawyer approvingly.

‘Just wot the young nobleman said ev’ry quarter-day

arterwards for the rest of his life,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Wos you ever called in,’ inquired Sam, glancing at the driver,

after a short silence, and lowering his voice to a mysterious

whisper―‘wos you ever called in, when you wos ’prentice to a

sawbones, to wisit a postboy.’

‘I don’t remember that I ever was,’ replied Bob Sawyer.

‘You never see a postboy in that ’ere hospital as you walked (as

they says o’ the ghosts), did you?’ demanded Sam.

‘No,’ replied Bob Sawyer. ‘I don’t think I ever did.’

‘Never know’d a churchyard were there wos a postboy’s

tombstone, or see a dead postboy, did you?’ inquired Sam,

pursuing his catechism.

‘No,’ rejoined Bob, ‘I never did.’

‘No!’ rejoined Sam triumphantly. ‘Nor never vill; and there’s

another thing that no man never see, and that’s a dead donkey. No

man never see a dead donkey ’cept the gen’l’m’n in the black silk

smalls as know’d the young ’ooman as kep’ a goat; and that wos a

French donkey, so wery likely he warn’t wun o’ the reg’lar breed.’

‘Well, what has that got to do with the postboys?’ asked Bob

Sawyer.

‘This here,’ replied Sam. ‘Without goin’ so far as to as-sert, as

some wery sensible people do, that postboys and donkeys is both

immortal, wot I say is this: that wenever they feels theirselves

gettin’ stiff and past their work, they just rides off together, wun

postboy to a pair in the usual way; wot becomes on ’em nobody

knows, but it’s wery probable as they starts avay to take their

pleasure in some other vorld, for there ain’t a man alive as ever

see either a donkey or a postboy a-takin’ his pleasure in this!’

Expatiating upon this learned and remarkable theory, and

citing many curious statistical and other facts in its support, Sam

Weller beguiled the time until they reached Dunchurch, where a

dry postboy and fresh horses were procured; the next stage was

Daventry, and the next Towcester; and at the end of each stage it

rained harder than it had done at the beginning.

‘I say,’ remonstrated Bob Sawyer, looking in at the coach

window, as they pulled up before the door of the Saracen’s Head,

Towcester, ‘this won’t do, you know.’

‘Bless me!’ said Mr. Pickwick, just awakening from a nap, ‘I’m

afraid you’re wet.’

‘Oh, you are, are you?’ returned Bob. ‘Yes, I am, a little that

way, Uncomfortably damp, perhaps.’

Bob did look dampish, inasmuch as the rain was streaming

from his neck, elbows, cuffs, skirts, and knees; and his whole

apparel shone so with the wet, that it might have been mistaken

for a full suit of prepared oilskin.

‘I am rather wet,’ said Bob, giving himself a shake and casting a

little hydraulic shower around, like a Newfoundland dog just

emerged from the water.

‘I think it’s quite impossible to go on to-night,’ interposed Ben.

‘Out of the question, sir,’ remarked Sam Weller, coming to

assist in the conference; ‘it’s a cruelty to animals, sir, to ask ’em to

do it. There’s beds here, sir,’ said Sam, addressing his master,

‘everything clean and comfortable. Wery good little dinner, sir,

they can get ready in half an hour―pair of fowls, sir, and a weal

cutlet; French beans, ’taturs, tart, and tidiness. You’d better stop

vere you are, sir, if I might recommend. Take adwice, sir, as the

doctor said.’

The host of the Saracen’s Head opportunely appeared at this

moment, to confirm Mr. Weller’s statement relative to the

accommodations of the establishment, and to back his entreaties

with a variety of dismal conjectures regarding the state of the

roads, the doubt of fresh horses being to be had at the next stage,

the dead certainty of its raining all night, the equally mortal

certainty of its clearing up in the morning, and other topics of

inducement familiar to innkeepers.

‘Well,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but I must send a letter to London by

some conveyance, so that it may be delivered the very first thing in

the morning, or I must go forwards at all hazards.’

The landlord smiled his delight. Nothing could be easier than

for the gentleman to inclose a letter in a sheet of brown paper, and

send it on, either by the mail or the night coach from Birmingham.

If the gentleman were particularly anxious to have it left as soon

as possible, he might write outside, ‘To be delivered immediately,’

which was sure to be attended to; or ‘Pay the bearer half-a-crown

extra for instant delivery,’ which was surer still.

‘Very well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘then we will stop here.’

‘Lights in the Sun, John; make up the fire; the gentlemen are

wet!’ cried the landlord. ‘This way, gentlemen; don’t trouble

yourselves about the postboy now, sir. I’ll send him to you when

you ring for him, sir. Now, John, the candles.’

The candles were brought, the fire was stirred up, and a fresh

log of wood thrown on. In ten minutes’ time, a waiter was laying

the cloth for dinner, the curtains were drawn, the fire was blazing

brightly, and everything looked (as everything always does, in all

decent English inns) as if the travellers had been expected, and

their comforts prepared, for days beforehand.

Mr. Pickwick sat down at a side table, and hastily indited a note

to Mr. Winkle, merely informing him that he was detained by

stress of weather, but would certainly be in London next day; until

when he deferred any account of his proceedings. This note was

hastily made into a parcel, and despatched to the bar per Mr.

Samuel Weller.

Sam left it with the landlady, and was returning to pull his

master’s boots off, after drying himself by the kitchen fire, when

glancing casually through a half-opened door, he was arrested by

the sight of a gentleman with a sandy head who had a large bundle

of newspapers lying on the table before him, and was perusing the

leading article of one with a settled sneer which curled up his nose

and all other features into a majestic expression of haughty

contempt.

‘Hollo!’ said Sam, ‘I ought to know that ’ere head and them

features; the eyeglass, too, and the broad-brimmed tile! Eatansvill

to vit, or I’m a Roman.’

Sam was taken with a troublesome cough, at once, for the

purpose of attracting the gentleman’s attention; the gentleman

starting at the sound, raised his head and his eyeglass, and

disclosed to view the profound and thoughtful features of Mr. Pott,

of the Eatanswill Gazette.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir,’ said Sam, advancing with a bow, ‘my

master’s here, Mr. Pott.’

‘Hush! hush!’ cried Pott, drawing Sam into the room, and

closing the door, with a countenance of mysterious dread and

apprehension.

‘Wot’s the matter, sir?’ inquired Sam, looking vacantly about

him.

‘Not a whisper of my name,’ replied Pott; ‘this is a buff

neighbourhood. If the excited and irritable populace knew I was

here, I should be torn to pieces.’

‘No! Vould you, sir?’ inquired Sam.

‘I should be the victim of their fury,’ replied Pott. ‘Now young

man, what of your master?’

‘He’s a-stopping here to-night on his vay to town, with a couple

of friends,’ replied Sam.

‘Is Mr. Winkle one of them?’ inquired Pott, with a slight frown.

‘No, sir. Mr. Vinkle stops at home now,’ rejoined Sam. ‘He’s

married.’

‘Married!’ exclaimed Pott, with frightful vehemence. He

stopped, smiled darkly, and added, in a low, vindictive tone, ‘It

serves him right!’ Having given vent to this cruel ebullition of

deadly malice and cold-blooded triumph over a fallen enemy, Mr.

Pott inquired whether Mr. Pickwick’s friends were ‘blue?’

Receiving a most satisfactory answer in the affirmative from Sam,

who knew as much about the matter as Pott himself, he consented

to accompany him to Mr. Pickwick’s room, where a hearty

welcome awaited him, and an agreement to club their dinners

together was at once made and ratified.

‘And how are matters going on in Eatanswill?’ inquired Mr.

Pickwick, when Pott had taken a seat near the fire, and the whole

party had got their wet boots off, and dry slippers on. ‘Is the

Independent still in being?’

‘The Independent, sir,’ replied Pott, ‘is still dragging on a

wretched and lingering career. Abhorred and despised by even

the few who are cognisant of its miserable and disgraceful

existence, stifled by the very filth it so profusely scatters, rendered

deaf and blind by the exhalations of its own slime, the obscene

journal, happily unconscious of its degraded state, is rapidly

sinking beneath that treacherous mud which, while it seems to

give it a firm standing with the low and debased classes of society,

is nevertheless rising above its detested head, and will speedily

engulf it for ever.’

Having delivered this manifesto (which formed a portion of his

last week’s leader) with vehement articulation, the editor paused

to take breath, and looked majestically at Bob Sawyer.

‘You are a young man, sir,’ said Pott.

Mr. Bob Sawyer nodded.

‘So are you, sir,’ said Pott, addressing Mr. Ben Allen.

Ben admitted the soft impeachment.

‘And are both deeply imbued with those blue principles, which,

so long as I live, I have pledged myself to the people of these

kingdoms to support and to maintain?’ suggested Pott.

‘Why, I don’t exactly know about that,’ replied Bob Sawyer. ‘I

am―’

‘Not buff, Mr. Pickwick,’ interrupted Pott, drawing back his

chair, ‘your friend is not buff, sir?’

‘No, no,’ rejoined Bob, ‘I’m a kind of plaid at present; a

compound of all sorts of colours.’

‘A waverer,’ said Pott solemnly, ‘a waverer. I should like to

show you a series of eight articles, sir, that have appeared in the

Eatanswill Gazette. I think I may venture to say that you would

not be long in establishing your opinions on a firm and solid blue

basis, sir.’

‘I dare say I should turn very blue, long before I got to the end

of them,’ responded Bob.

Mr. Pott looked dubiously at Bob Sawyer for some seconds,

and, turning to Mr. Pickwick, said―

‘You have seen the literary articles which have appeared at

intervals in the Eatanswill Gazette in the course of the last three

months, and which have excited such general―I may say such

universal―attention and admiration?’

‘Why,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, slightly embarrassed by the

question, ‘the fact is, I have been so much engaged in other ways,

that I really have not had an opportunity of perusing them.’

‘You should do so, sir,’ said Pott, with a severe countenance.

‘I will,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘They appeared in the form of a copious review of a work on

Chinese metaphysics, sir,’ said Pott.

‘Oh,’ observed Mr. Pickwick; ‘from your pen, I hope?’

‘From the pen of my critic, sir,’ rejoined Pott, with dignity.

‘An abstruse subject, I should conceive,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Very, sir,’ responded Pott, looking intensely sage. ‘He crammed

for it, to use a technical but expressive term; he read up for the

subject, at my desire, in the Encyclopaedia Britannica.’

‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘I was not aware that that valuable

work contained any information respecting Chinese metaphysics.’

‘He read, sir,’ rejoined Pott, laying his hand on Mr. Pickwick’s

knee, and looking round with a smile of intellectual superiority―

‘he read for metaphysics under the letter M, and for China under

the letter C, and combined his information, sir!’

Mr. Pott’s features assumed so much additional grandeur at the

recollection of the power and research displayed in the learned

effusions in question, that some minutes elapsed before Mr.

Pickwick felt emboldened to renew the conversation; at length, as

the editor’s countenance gradually relaxed into its customary

expression of moral supremacy, he ventured to resume the

discourse by asking―

‘Is it fair to inquire what great object has brought you so far

from home?’

‘That object which actuates and animates me in all my gigantic

labours, sir,’ replied Pott, with a calm smile: ‘my country’s good.’

‘I supposed it was some public mission,’ observed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes, sir,’ resumed Pott, ‘it is.’ Here, bending towards Mr.

Pickwick, he whispered in a deep, hollow voice, ‘A Buff ball, sir,

will take place in Birmingham to-morrow evening.’

‘God bless me!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes, sir, and supper,’ added Pott.

‘You don’t say so!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick.

Pott nodded portentously.

Now, although Mr. Pickwick feigned to stand aghast at this

disclosure, he was so little versed in local politics that he was

unable to form an adequate comprehension of the importance of

the dire conspiracy it referred to; observing which, Mr. Pott,

drawing forth the last number of the Eatanswill Gazette, and

referring to the same, delivered himself of the following

paragraph:―

HOLE-AND-CORNER BUFFERY.

‘A reptile contemporary has recently sweltered forth his black

venom in the vain and hopeless attempt of sullying the fair name

of our distinguished and excellent representative, the Honourable

Mr. Slumkey―that Slumkey whom we, long before he gained his

present noble and exalted position, predicted would one day be, as

he now is, at once his country’s brightest honour, and her

proudest boast: alike her bold defender and her honest pride―our

reptile contemporary, we say, has made himself merry, at the

expense of a superbly embossed plated coal-scuttle, which has

been presented to that glorious man by his enraptured

constituents, and towards the purchase of which, the nameless

wretch insinuates, the Honourable Mr. Slumkey himself

contributed, through a confidential friend of his butler’s, more

than three-fourths of the whole sum subscribed. Why, does not the

crawling creature see, that even if this be the fact, the Honourable

Mr. Slumkey only appears in a still more amiable and radiant light

than before, if that be possible? Does not even his obtuseness

perceive that this amiable and touching desire to carry out the

wishes of the constituent body, must for ever endear him to the

hearts and souls of such of his fellow townsmen as are not worse

than swine; or, in other words, who are not as debased as our

contemporary himself? But such is the wretched trickery of hole-

and-corner Buffery! These are not its only artifices. Treason is

abroad. We boldly state, now that we are goaded to the disclosure,

and we throw ourselves on the country and its constables for

protection―we boldly state that secret preparations are at this

moment in progress for a Buff ball; which is to be held in a Buff

town, in the very heart and centre of a Buff population; which is to

be conducted by a Buff master of the ceremonies; which is to be

attended by four ultra Buff members of Parliament, and the

admission to which, is to be by Buff tickets! Does our fiendish

contemporary wince? Let him writhe, in impotent malice, as we

pen the words, WE WILL BE THERE.’

‘There, sir,’ said Pott, folding up the paper quite exhausted,

‘that is the state of the case!’

The landlord and waiter entering at the moment with dinner,

caused Mr. Pott to lay his finger on his lips, in token that he

considered his life in Mr. Pickwick’s hands, and depended on his

secrecy. Messrs. Bob Sawyer and Benjamin Allen, who had

irreverently fallen asleep during the reading of the quotation from

the Eatanswill Gazette, and the discussion which followed it, were

roused by the mere whispering of the talismanic word ‘Dinner’ in

their ears; and to dinner they went with good digestion waiting on

appetite, and health on both, and a waiter on all three.

In the course of the dinner and the sitting which succeeded it,

Mr. Pott descending, for a few moments, to domestic topics,

informed Mr. Pickwick that the air of Eatanswill not agreeing with

his lady, she was then engaged in making a tour of different

fashionable watering-places with a view to the recovery of her

wonted health and spirits; this was a delicate veiling of the fact

that Mrs. Pott, acting upon her often-repeated threat of

separation, had, in virtue of an arrangement negotiated by her

brother, the lieutenant, and concluded by Mr. Pott, permanently

retired with the faithful bodyguard upon one moiety or half part of

the annual income and profits arising from the editorship and sale

of the Eatanswill Gazette.

While the great Mr. Pott was dwelling upon this and other

matters, enlivening the conversation from time to time with

various extracts from his own lucubrations, a stern stranger,

calling from the window of a stage-coach, outward bound, which

halted at the inn to deliver packages, requested to know whether if

he stopped short on his journey and remained there for the night,

he could be furnished with the necessary accommodation of a bed

and bedstead.

‘Certainly, sir,’ replied the landlord.

‘I can, can I?’ inquired the stranger, who seemed habitually

suspicious in look and manner.

‘No doubt of it, sir,’ replied the landlord.

‘Good,’ said the stranger. ‘Coachman, I get down here. Guard,

my carpet-bag!’

Bidding the other passengers good-night, in a rather snappish

manner, the stranger alighted. He was a shortish gentleman, with

very stiff black hair cut in the porcupine or blacking-brush style,

and standing stiff and straight all over his head; his aspect was

pompous and threatening; his manner was peremptory; his eyes

were sharp and restless; and his whole bearing bespoke a feeling

of great confidence in himself, and a consciousness of

immeasurable superiority over all other people.

This gentleman was shown into the room originally assigned to

the patriotic Mr. Pott; and the waiter remarked, in dumb

astonishment at the singular coincidence, that he had no sooner

lighted the candles than the gentleman, diving into his hat, drew

forth a newspaper, and began to read it with the very same

expression of indignant scorn, which, upon the majestic features

of Pott, had paralysed his energies an hour before. The man

observed too, that, whereas Mr. Pott’s scorn had been roused by a

newspaper headed the Eatanswill Independent, this gentleman’s

withering contempt was awakened by a newspaper entitled the

Eatanswill Gazette.

‘Send the landlord,’ said the stranger.

‘Yes, sir,’ rejoined the waiter.

The landlord was sent, and came.

‘Are you the landlord?’ inquired the gentleman.

‘I am sir,’ replied the landlord.

‘My name is Slurk,’ said the gentleman.

The landlord slightly inclined his head.

‘Slurk, sir,’ repeated the gentleman haughtily. ‘Do you know me

now, man?’

The landlord scratched his head, looked at the ceiling, and at

the stranger, and smiled feebly.

‘Do you know me, man?’ inquired the stranger angrily.

The landlord made a strong effort, and at length replied: ‘Well,

sir, I do not know you.’

‘Great Heaven!’ said the stranger, dashing his clenched fist

upon the table. ‘And this is popularity!’

The landlord took a step or two towards the door; the stranger

fixing his eyes upon him, resumed.

‘This,’ said the stranger―‘this is gratitude for years of labour

and study in behalf of the masses. I alight wet and weary; no

enthusiastic crowds press forward to greet their champion; the

church bells are silent; the very name elicits no responsive feeling

in their torpid bosoms. It is enough,’ said the agitated Mr. Slurk,

pacing to and fro, ‘to curdle the ink in one’s pen, and induce one to

abandon their cause for ever.’

‘Did you say brandy-and-water, sir?’ said the landlord,

venturing a hint.

‘Rum,’ said Mr. Slurk, turning fiercely upon him. ‘Have you got

a fire anywhere?’

‘We can light one directly, sir,’ said the landlord.

‘Which will throw out no heat until it is bed-time,’ interrupted

Mr. Slurk. ‘Is there anybody in the kitchen?’

Not a soul. There was a beautiful fire. Everybody had gone, and

the house door was closed for the night.

‘I will drink my rum-and-water,’ said Mr. Slurk, ‘by the kitchen

fire.’ So, gathering up his hat and newspaper, he stalked solemnly

behind the landlord to that humble apartment, and throwing

himself on a settle by the fireside, resumed his countenance of

scorn, and began to read and drink in silent dignity.

Now, some demon of discord, flying over the Saracen’s Head at

that moment, on casting down his eyes in mere idle curiosity,

happened to behold Slurk established comfortably by the kitchen

fire, and Pott slightly elevated with wine in another room; upon

which the malicious demon, darting down into the last-mentioned

apartment with inconceivable rapidity, passed at once into the

head of Mr. Bob Sawyer, and prompted him for his (the demon’s)

own evil purpose to speak as follows:―

‘I say, we’ve let the fire out. It’s uncommonly cold after the rain,

isn’t it?’

‘It really is,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, shivering.

‘It wouldn’t be a bad notion to have a cigar by the kitchen fire,

would it?’ said Bob Sawyer, still prompted by the demon

aforesaid.

‘It would be particularly comfortable, I think,’ replied Mr.

Pickwick. ‘Mr. Pott, what do you say?’

Mr. Pott yielded a ready assent; and all four travellers, each

with his glass in his hand, at once betook themselves to the

kitchen, with Sam Weller heading the procession to show them the

way.

The stranger was still reading; he looked up and started. Mr.

Pott started.

‘What’s the matter?’ whispered Mr. Pickwick.

‘That reptile!’ replied Pott.

‘What reptile?’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him for fear he

should tread on some overgrown black beetle, or dropsical spider.

‘That reptile,’ whispered Pott, catching Mr. Pickwick by the

arm, and pointing towards the stranger. ‘That reptile Slurk, of the

Independent!’

‘Perhaps we had better retire,’ whispered Mr. Pickwick.

‘Never, sir,’ rejoined Pott, pot-valiant in a double sense―

‘never.’ With these words, Mr. Pott took up his position on an

opposite settle, and selecting one from a little bundle of

newspapers, began to read against his enemy.

Mr. Pott, of course read the Independent, and Mr. Slurk, of

course, read the Gazette; and each gentleman audibly expressed

his contempt at the other’s compositions by bitter laughs and

sarcastic sniffs; whence they proceeded to more open expressions

of opinion, such as ‘absurd,’ ‘wretched,’ ‘atrocity,’ ‘humbug,’

‘knavery’, ‘dirt,’ ‘filth,’ ‘slime,’ ‘ditch-water,’ and other critical

remarks of the like nature.

Both Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Ben Allen had beheld these

symptoms of rivalry and hatred, with a degree of delight which

imparted great additional relish to the cigars at which they were

puffing most vigorously. The moment they began to flag, the

mischievous Mr. Bob Sawyer, addressing Slurk with great

politeness, said―

‘Will you allow me to look at your paper, sir, when you have

quite done with it?’

‘You will find very little to repay you for your trouble in this

contemptible thing, sir,’ replied Slurk, bestowing a Satanic frown

on Pott.

‘You shall have this presently,’ said Pott, looking up, pale with

rage, and quivering in his speech, from the same cause. ‘Ha! ha!

you will be amused with this fellow’s audacity.’

Terrible emphasis was laid upon ‘thing’ and ‘fellow’; and the

faces of both editors began to glow with defiance.

‘The ribaldry of this miserable man is despicably disgusting,’

said Pott, pretending to address Bob Sawyer, and scowling upon

Slurk. Here, Mr. Slurk laughed very heartily, and folding up the

paper so as to get at a fresh column conveniently, said, that the

blockhead really amused him.

‘What an impudent blunderer this fellow is,’ said Pott, turning

from pink to crimson.

‘Did you ever read any of this man’s foolery, sir?’ inquired

Slurk of Bob Sawyer.

‘Never,’ replied Bob; ‘is it very bad?’

‘Oh, shocking! shocking!’ rejoined Slurk.

‘Really! Dear me, this is too atrocious!’ exclaimed Pott, at this

juncture; still feigning to be absorbed in his reading.

‘If you can wade through a few sentences of malice, meanness,

falsehood, perjury, treachery, and cant,’ said Slurk, handing the

paper to Bob, ‘you will, perhaps, be somewhat repaid by a laugh at

the style of this ungrammatical twaddler.’

‘What’s that you said, sir?’ inquired Mr. Pott, looking up,

trembling all over with passion.

‘What’s that to you, sir?’ replied Slurk.

‘Ungrammatical twaddler, was it, sir?’ said Pott.

‘Yes, sir, it was,’ replied Slurk; ‘and blue bore, sir, if you like that

better; ha! ha!’

Mr. Pott retorted not a word at this jocose insult, but

deliberately folded up his copy of the Independent, flattened it

carefully down, crushed it beneath his boot, spat upon it with

great ceremony, and flung it into the fire.

‘There, sir,’ said Pott, retreating from the stove, ‘and that’s the

way I would serve the viper who produces it, if I were not,

fortunately for him, restrained by the laws of my country.’

‘Serve him so, sir!’ cried Slurk, starting up. ‘Those laws shall

never be appealed to by him, sir, in such a case. Serve him so, sir!’

‘Hear! hear!’ said Bob Sawyer.

‘Nothing can be fairer,’ observed Mr. Ben Allen.

‘Serve him so, sir!’ reiterated Slurk, in a loud voice.

Mr. Pott darted a look of contempt, which might have withered

an anchor.

‘Serve him so, sir!’ reiterated Slurk, in a louder voice than

before.

‘I will not, sir,’ rejoined Pott.

‘Oh, you won’t, won’t you, sir?’ said Mr. Slurk, in a taunting

manner; ‘you hear this, gentlemen! He won’t; not that he’s

afraid―, oh, no! he won’t. Ha! ha!’

‘I consider you, sir,’ said Mr. Pott, moved by this sarcasm, ‘I

consider you a viper. I look upon you, sir, as a man who has placed

himself beyond the pale of society, by his most audacious,

disgraceful, and abominable public conduct. I view you, sir,

personally and politically, in no other light than as a most

unparalleled and unmitigated viper.’

The indignant Independent did not wait to hear the end of this

personal denunciation; for, catching up his carpet-bag, which was

well stuffed with movables, he swung it in the air as Pott turned

away, and, letting it fall with a circular sweep on his head, just at

that particular angle of the bag where a good thick hairbrush

happened to be packed, caused a sharp crash to be heard

throughout the kitchen, and brought him at once to the ground.

‘Gentlemen,’ cried Mr. Pickwick, as Pott started up and seized

the fire-shovel―‘gentlemen! Consider, for Heaven’s sake―help―

Sam―here―pray, gentlemen―interfere, somebody.’

Uttering these incoherent exclamations, Mr. Pickwick rushed

between the infuriated combatants just in time to receive the

carpet-bag on one side of his body, and the fire-shovel on the

other. Whether the representatives of the public feeling of

Eatanswill were blinded by animosity, or (being both acute

reasoners) saw the advantage of having a third party between

them to bear all the blows, certain it is that they paid not the

slightest attention to Mr. Pickwick, but defying each other with

great spirit, plied the carpet-bag and the fire-shovel most

fearlessly. Mr. Pickwick would unquestionably have suffered

severely for his humane interference, if Mr. Weller, attracted by

his master’s cries, had not rushed in at the moment, and,

snatching up a meal―sack, effectually stopped the conflict by

drawing it over the head and shoulders of the mighty Pott, and

clasping him tight round the shoulders. ‘Take away that ’ere bag

from the t’other madman,’ said Sam to Ben Allen and Bob Sawyer,

who had done nothing but dodge round the group, each with a

tortoise-shell lancet in his hand, ready to bleed the first man

stunned. ‘Give it up, you wretched little creetur, or I’ll smother

you in it.’

Awed by these threats, and quite out of breath, the

Independent suffered himself to be disarmed; and Mr. Weller,

removing the extinguisher from Pott, set him free with a caution.

‘You take yourselves off to bed quietly,’ said Sam, ‘or I’ll put

you both in it, and let you fight it out vith the mouth tied, as I

vould a dozen sich, if they played these games. And you have the

goodness to come this here way, sir, if you please.’

Thus addressing his master, Sam took him by the arm, and led

him off, while the rival editors were severally removed to their

beds by the landlord, under the inspection of Mr. Bob Sawyer and

Mr. Benjamin Allen; breathing, as they went away, many

sanguinary threats, and making vague appointments for mortal

combat next day. When they came to think it over, however, it

occurred to them that they could do it much better in print, so

they recommenced deadly hostilities without delay; and all

Eatanswill rung with their boldness―on paper.

They had taken themselves off in separate coaches, early next

morning, before the other travellers were stirring; and the weather

having now cleared up, the chaise companions once more turned

their faces to London.

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