Perhaps he did, having just left a pleasant little smoking-party of twelve medical students, in a small back parlour with a large fire.
“But I am delighted to see you,” said Mr. Ben Allen. “Bless you, Bella!”
“There,” said Arabella, bending forward to kiss her brother; “don’t take hold of me again, Ben, dear, because you tumble me so.”
At this point of the reconciliation, Mr. Ben Allen allowed his feelings and the cigars and porter to overcome him, and looked round upon the beholders with damp spectacles.
“Is nothing to be said to me?” cried Wardle, with open arms.
“A great deal,” whispered Arabella, as she received the old gentleman’s hearty caress and congratulation. “You are a hard-hearted, unfeeling, cruel monster.”
“You are a little rebel,” replied Wardle, in the same tone, “and I am afraid I shall be obliged to forbid you the house. People like you, who get married in spite of everybody, ought not to be let loose on society. But come!” added the old gentleman aloud, “here’s the dinner; you shall sit by me. Joe; why, damn the boy, he’s awake!”
To the great distress of his master, the fat boy was indeed in a state of remarkable vigilance, his eyes being wide open, and looking as if they intended to remain so. There was an alacrity in his manner, too, which was equally unaccountable; every time his eyes met those of Emily or Arabella, he smirked and grinned; once, Wardle could have sworn, he saw him wink.
This alteration in the fat boy’s demeanour originated in his increased sense of his own importance, and the dignity he acquired from having been taken into the confidence of the young ladies; and the smirks, and grins, and winks were so many condescending assurances that they might depend upon his fidelity. As these tokens were rather calculated to awaken suspicion than allay it, and were somewhat embarrassing besides, they were occasionally answered by a frown or shake of the head from Arabella, which the fat boy, considering as hints to be on his guard, expressed his perfect understanding of, by smirking, grinning, and winking, with redoubled assiduity.
“Joe,” said Mr. Wardle, after an unsuccessful search in all his pockets, “is my snuffbox on the sofa?”
“No, sir,” replied the fat boy.
“Oh, I recollect; I left it on my dressing-table this morning,” said Wardle. “Run into the next room and fetch it.”
The fat boy went into the next room; and, having been absent about a minute, returned with the snuffbox, and the palest face that ever a fat boy wore.
“What’s the matter with the boy?” exclaimed Wardle.
“Nothen’s the matter with me,” replied Joe nervously.
“Have you been seeing any spirits?” inquired the old gentleman.
“Or taking any?” added Ben Allen.
“I think you’re right,” whispered Wardle across the table. “He is intoxicated, I’m sure.”
Ben Allen replied that he thought he was; and, as that gentleman had seen a vast deal of the disease in question, Wardle was confirmed in an impression which had been hovering about his mind for half an hour, and at once arrived at the conclusion that the fat boy was drunk.
“Just keep your eye upon him for a few minutes,” murmured Wardle. “We shall soon find out whether he is or not.”
The unfortunate youth had only interchanged a dozen words with Mr. Snodgrass, that gentleman having implored him to make a private appeal to some friend to release him, and then pushed him out with the snuffbox, lest his prolonged absence should lead to a discovery. He ruminated a little with a most disturbed expression of face, and left the room in search of Mary.
But Mary had gone home after dressing her mistress, and the fat boy came back again more disturbed than before.
Wardle and Mr. Ben Allen exchanged glances.
“Joe!” said Wardle.
“Yes, sir.”
“What did you go away for?”
The fat boy looked hopelessly in the face of everybody at table, and stammered out that he didn’t know.
“Oh,” said Wardle, “you don’t know, eh? Take this cheese to Mr. Pickwick.”
Now, Mr. Pickwick being in the very best health and spirits, had been making himself perfectly delightful all dinnertime, and was at this moment engaged in an energetic conversation with Emily and Mr. Winkle; bowing his head, courteously, in the emphasis of his discourse, gently waving his left hand to lend force to his observations, and all glowing with placid smiles. He took a piece of cheese from the plate, and was on the point of turning round to renew the conversation, when the fat boy, stooping so as to bring his head on a level with that of Mr. Pickwick, pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, and made the most horrible and hideous face that was ever seen out of a Christmas pantomime.
“Dear me!” said Mr. Pickwick, starting, “what a very—Eh?” He stopped, for the fat boy had drawn himself up, and was, or pretended to be, fast asleep.
“What’s the matter?” inquired Wardle.
“This is such an extremely singular lad!” replied Mr. Pickwick, looking uneasily at the boy. “It seems an odd thing to say, but upon my word I am afraid that, at times, he is a little deranged.”
“Oh! Mr. Pickwick, pray don’t say so,” cried Emily and Arabella, both at once.
“I am not certain, of course,” said Mr. Pickwick, amidst profound silence and looks of general dismay; “but his manner to me this moment really was very alarming. Oh!” ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, suddenly jumping up with a short scream. “I beg your pardon, ladies, but at that moment he ran some sharp instrument into my leg. Really, he is not safe.”
“He’s drunk,” roared old Wardle passionately. “Ring the bell! Call the waiters! He’s drunk.”
“I ain’t,” said the fat boy, falling on his knees as his master seized him by the collar. “I ain’t drunk.”
“Then you’re mad; that’s worse. Call the waiters,” said the old gentleman.
“I ain’t mad; I’m sensible,” rejoined the fat boy, beginning to cry.
“Then, what the devil did you run sharp instruments into Mr. Pickwick’s legs for?” inquired Wardle
