There was a certain degree of pride and importance about being wanted by one’s lawyers in such a monstrous hurry, that was by no means displeasing to Mrs. Bardell, especially as it might be reasonably supposed to enhance her consequence in the eyes of the first-floor lodger. She simpered a little, affected extreme vexation and hesitation, and at last arrived at the conclusion that she supposed she must go.
“But won’t you refresh yourself after your walk, Mr. Jackson?” said Mrs. Bardell persuasively.
“Why, really there ain’t much time to lose,” replied Jackson; “and I’ve got a friend here,” he continued, looking towards the man with the ash stick.
“Oh, ask your friend to come here, Sir,” said Mrs. Bardell. “Pray ask your friend here, Sir.”
“Why, thank’ee, I’d rather not,” said Mr. Jackson, with some embarrassment of manner. “He’s not much used to ladies’ society, and it makes him bashful. If you’ll order the waiter to deliver him anything short, he won’t drink it off at once, won’t he!—only try him!” Mr. Jackson’s fingers wandered playfully round his nose at this portion of his discourse, to warn his hearers that he was speaking ironically.
The waiter was at once despatched to the bashful gentleman, and the bashful gentleman took something; Mr. Jackson also took something, and the ladies took something, for hospitality’s sake. Mr. Jackson then said he was afraid it was time to go; upon which, Mrs. Sanders, Mrs. Cluppins, and Tommy (who it was arranged should accompany Mrs. Bardell, leaving the others to Mr. Raddle’s protection), got into the coach.
“Isaac,” said Jackson, as Mrs. Bardell prepared to get in, looking up at the man with the ash stick, who was seated on the box, smoking a cigar.
“Well?”
“This is Mrs. Bardell.”
“Oh, I know’d that long ago,” said the man.
Mrs. Bardell got in, Mr. Jackson got in after her, and away they drove. Mrs. Bardell could not help ruminating on what Mr. Jackson’s friend had said. Shrewd creatures, those lawyers. Lord bless us, how they find people out!
“Sad thing about these costs of our people’s, ain’t it,” said Jackson, when Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders had fallen asleep; “your bill of costs, I mean.”
“I’m very sorry they can’t get them,” replied Mrs. Bardell. “But if you law gentlemen do these things on speculation, why you must get a loss now and then, you know.”
“You gave them a cognovit for the amount of your costs, after the trial, I’m told!” said Jackson.
“Yes. Just as a matter of form,” replied Mrs. Bardell.
“Certainly,” replied Jackson drily. “Quite a matter of form. Quite.”
On they drove, and Mrs. Bardell fell asleep. She was awakened, after some time, by the stopping of the coach.
“Bless us!” said the lady. “Are we at Freeman’s Court?”
“We’re not going quite so far,” replied Jackson. “Have the goodness to step out.”
Mrs. Bardell, not yet thoroughly awake, complied. It was a curious place: a large wall, with a gate in the middle, and a gaslight burning inside.
“Now, ladies,” cried the man with the ash stick, looking into the coach, and shaking Mrs. Sanders to wake her, “Come!” Rousing her friend, Mrs. Sanders alighted. Mrs. Bardell, leaning on Jackson’s arm, and leading Tommy by the hand, had already entered the porch. They followed.
The room they turned into was even more odd-looking than the porch. Such a number of men standing about! And they stared so!
“What place is this?” inquired Mrs. Bardell, pausing.
“Only one of our public offices,” replied Jackson, hurrying her through a door, and looking round to see that the other women were following. “Look sharp, Isaac!”
“Safe and sound,” replied the man with the ash stick. The door swung heavily after them, and they descended a small flight of steps.
“Here we are at last. All right and tight, Mrs. Bardell!” said Jackson, looking exultingly round.
“What do you mean?” said Mrs. Bardell, with a palpitating heart.
“Just this,” replied Jackson, drawing her a little on one side; “don’t be frightened, Mrs. Bardell. There never was a more delicate man than Dodson, ma’am, or a more humane man than Fogg. It was their duty in the way of business, to take you in execution for them costs; but they were anxious to spare your feelings as much as they could. What a comfort it must be, to you, to think how it’s been done! This is the Fleet, ma’am. Wish you good night, Mrs. Bardell. Good night, Tommy!”
As Jackson hurried away in company with the man with the ash stick another man, with a key in his hand, who had been looking on, led the bewildered female to a second short flight of steps leading to a doorway. Mrs. Bardell screamed violently; Tommy roared; Mrs. Cluppins shrunk within herself; and Mrs. Sanders made off, without more ado. For there stood the injured Mr. Pickwick, taking his nightly allowance of air; and beside him leant Samuel Weller, who, seeing Mrs. Bardell, took his hat off with mock reverence, while his master turned indignantly on his heel.
“Don’t bother the woman,” said the turnkey to Weller; “she’s just come in.”
“A prisoner!” said Sam, quickly replacing his hat. “Who’s the plaintives? What for? Speak up, old feller.”
“Dodson and Fogg,” replied the man; “execution on cognovit for costs.”
“Here, Job, Job!” shouted Sam, dashing into the passage. “Run to Mr. Perker’s, Job. I want him directly. I see some good in this. Here’s a game. Hooray! vere’s the gov’nor?”
But there was no reply to these inquiries, for Job had started furiously off, the instant he received his commission, and Mrs. Bardell had fainted in real downright earnest.
XLVII
Is chiefly devoted to matters of business, and the temporal advantage of Dodson And Fogg—Mr. Winkle reappears under extraordinary circumstances—Mr. Pickwick’s benevolence proves stronger than his obstinacy.
Job Trotter, abating nothing of his speed, ran up Holborn, sometimes in the middle of the road, sometimes on the pavement, sometimes in the gutter, as the chances of getting
