“That’s all, is it?” said Sam.
“That’s all,” replied Mr. Weller. “And I s’pose as it’s all right and satisfactory to you and me as is the only parties interested, ve may as vell put this bit o’ paper into the fire.”
“Wot are you a-doin’ on, you lunatic?” said Sam, snatching the paper away, as his parent, in all innocence, stirred the fire preparatory to suiting the action to the word. “You’re a nice eggzekiter, you are.”
“Vy not?” inquired Mr. Weller, looking sternly round, with the poker in his hand.
“Vy not?” exclaimed Sam. “ ’Cos it must be proved, and probated, and swore to, and all manner o’ formalities.”
“You don’t mean that?” said Mr. Weller, laying down the poker.
Sam buttoned the will carefully in a side pocket; intimating by a look, meanwhile, that he did mean it, and very seriously too.
“Then I’ll tell you wot it is,” said Mr. Weller, after a short meditation, “this is a case for that ’ere confidential pal o’ the Chancellorship’s. Pell must look into this, Sammy. He’s the man for a difficult question at law. Ve’ll have this here brought afore the Solvent Court, directly, Samivel.”
“I never did see such a addle-headed old creetur!” exclaimed Sam irritably; “Old Baileys, and Solvent Courts, and alleybis, and ev’ry species o’ gammon alvays a-runnin’ through his brain. You’d better get your out o’ door clothes on, and come to town about this bisness, than stand a-preachin’ there about wot you don’t understand nothin’ on.”
“Wery good, Sammy,” replied Mr. Weller, “I’m quite agreeable to anythin’ as vill hexpedite business, Sammy. But mind this here, my boy, nobody but Pell—nobody but Pell as a legal adwiser.”
“I don’t want anybody else,” replied Sam. “Now, are you a-comin’?”
“Vait a minit, Sammy,” replied Mr. Weller, who, having tied his shawl with the aid of a small glass that hung in the window, was now, by dint of the most wonderful exertions, struggling into his upper garments. “Vait a minit’ Sammy; ven you grow as old as your father, you von’t get into your veskit quite as easy as you do now, my boy.”
“If I couldn’t get into it easier than that, I’m blessed if I’d vear vun at all,” rejoined his son.
“You think so now,” said Mr. Weller, with the gravity of age, “but you’ll find that as you get vider, you’ll get viser. Vidth and visdom, Sammy, alvays grows together.”
As Mr. Weller delivered this infallible maxim—the result of many years’ personal experience and observation—he contrived, by a dexterous twist of his body, to get the bottom button of his coat to perform its office. Having paused a few seconds to recover breath, he brushed his hat with his elbow, and declared himself ready.
“As four heads is better than two, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, as they drove along the London Road in the chaise-cart, “and as all this here property is a wery great temptation to a legal gen’l’m’n, ve’ll take a couple o’ friends o’ mine vith us, as’ll be wery soon down upon him if he comes anythin’ irreg’lar; two o’ them as saw you to the Fleet that day. They’re the wery best judges,” added Mr. Weller, in a half-whisper—“the wery best judges of a horse, you ever know’d.”
“And of a lawyer too?” inquired Sam.
“The man as can form a ackerate judgment of a animal, can form a ackerate judgment of anythin’,” replied his father, so dogmatically, that Sam did not attempt to controvert the position.
In pursuance of this notable resolution, the services of the mottled-faced gentleman and of two other very fat coachmen—selected by Mr. Weller, probably, with a view to their width and consequent wisdom—were put into requisition; and this assistance having been secured, the party proceeded to the public-house in Portugal Street, whence a messenger was despatched to the Insolvent Court over the way, requiring Mr. Solomon Pell’s immediate attendance.
The messenger fortunately found Mr. Solomon Pell in court, regaling himself, business being rather slack, with a cold collation of an Abernethy biscuit and a saveloy. The message was no sooner whispered in his ear than he thrust them in his pocket among various professional documents, and hurried over the way with such alacrity that he reached the parlour before the messenger had even emancipated himself from the court.
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Pell, touching his hat, “my service to you all. I don’t say it to flatter you, gentlemen, but there are not five other men in the world, that I’d have come out of that court for, today.”
“So busy, eh?” said Sam.
“Busy!” replied Pell; “I’m completely sewn up, as my friend the late Lord Chancellor many a time used to say to me, gentlemen, when he came out from hearing appeals in the House of Lords. Poor fellow; he was very susceptible to fatigue; he used to feel those appeals uncommonly. I actually thought more than once that he’d have sunk under ’em; I did, indeed.”
Here Mr. Pell shook his head and paused; on which, the elder Mr. Weller, nudging his neighbour, as begging him to mark the attorney’s high connections, asked whether the duties in question produced any permanent ill effects on the constitution of his noble friend.
“I don’t think he ever quite recovered them,” replied Pell; “in fact I’m sure he never did. ‘Pell,’ he used to say to me many a time, ‘how the blazes you can stand the head-work you do, is a mystery to me.’—‘Well,’ I used to answer, ‘I hardly know how I do it, upon my life.’—‘Pell,’ he’d add, sighing, and looking at me with a little envy—friendly envy, you know, gentlemen, mere friendly envy; I never minded it—‘Pell, you’re a wonder; a wonder.’ Ah! you’d have liked him very much if you had known him, gentlemen. Bring me three-penn’orth of rum, my dear.”
Addressing this latter remark to the waitress, in a tone of subdued grief, Mr. Pell sighed, looked
