To solve this question, Mr. Swiveller summoned the handmaid and ascertained that Miss Sophy Wackles had indeed left the letter with her own hands; that she had come accompanied, for decorum’s sake no doubt, by a younger Miss Wackles; and that on learning that Mr. Swiveller was at home and being requested to walk upstairs, she was extremely shocked and professed that she would rather die. Mr. Swiveller heard this account with a degree of admiration not altogether consistent with the project in which he had just concurred, but his friend attached very little importance to his behaviour in this respect, probably because he knew that he had influence sufficient to control Richard Swiveller’s proceedings in this or any other matter, whenever he deemed it necessary, for the advancement of his own purposes, to exert it.
VIII
Business disposed of, Mr. Swiveller was inwardly reminded of its being nigh dinnertime, and to the intent that his health might not be endangered by longer abstinence, despatched a message to the nearest eating-house requiring an immediate supply of boiled beef and greens for two. With this demand, however, the eating-house (having experience of its customer) declined to comply, churlishly sending back for answer that if Mr. Swiveller stood in need of beef perhaps he would be so obliging as to come there and eat it, bringing with him, as grace before meat, the amount of a certain small account which had been long outstanding. Not at all intimidated by this rebuff, but rather sharpened in wits and appetite, Mr. Swiveller forwarded the same message to another and more distant eating-house, adding to it by way of rider that the gentleman was induced to send so far, not only by the great fame and popularity its beef had acquired, but in consequence of the extreme toughness of the beef retailed at the obdurate cook’s shop, which rendered it quite unfit not merely for gentlemanly food but for any human consumption. The good effect of this politic course was demonstrated by the speedy arrival of a small pewter pyramid curiously constructed of platters and covers, whereof the boiled-beef-plates formed the base, and a foaming quart-pot the apex; the structure being resolved into its component parts afforded all things requisite and necessary for a hearty meal, to which Mr. Swiveller and his friend applied themselves with great keenness and enjoyment.
“May the present moment,” said Dick, sticking his fork into a large carbuncular potatoe, “be the worst of our lives! I like this plan of sending ’em with the peel on; there’s a charm in drawing a potatoe from its native element (if I may so express it) to which the rich and powerful are strangers. Ah! ‘Man wants but little here below, nor wants that little long!’ How true that is!—after dinner.”
“I hope the eating-house keeper will want but little and that he may not want that little long,” returned his companion; “but I suspect you’ve no means of paying for this!”
“I shall be passing presently, and I’ll call,” said Dick, winking his eye significantly. “The waiter’s quite helpless. The goods are gone Fred, and there’s an end of it.”
In point of fact, it would seem that the waiter felt this wholesome truth, for when he returned for the empty plates and dishes and was informed by Mr. Swiveller with dignified carelessness that he would call and settle when he should be passing presently, he displayed some perturbation of spirit, and muttered a few remarks about “payment on delivery,” and “no trust,” and other unpleasant subjects, but was fain to content himself with inquiring at what hour it was likely the gentleman would call, in order that being personally responsible for the beef, greens, and sundries, he might take care to be in the way at the time. Mr. Swiveller, after mentally calculating his engagements to a nicety, replied that he should look in at from two minutes before six to seven minutes past; and the man disappearing with this feeble consolation, Richard Swiveller took a greasy memorandum-book from his pocket and made an entry therein.
“Is that a reminder, in case you should forget to call?” said Trent with a sneer.
“Not exactly, Fred,” replied the imperturbable Richard, continuing to write with a businesslike air, “I enter in this little book the names of the streets that I can’t go down while the shops are open. This dinner today closes Long Acre. I bought a pair of boots in Great Queen Street last week, and made that no thoroughfare too. There’s only one avenue to the Strand left open now, and I shall have to stop up that tonight with a pair of gloves. The roads are closing so fast in every direction, that in about a month’s time, unless my aunt sends me a remittance, I shall have to go three or four miles out of town to get over the way.”
“There’s no fear of her failing, in the end?” said Trent.
“Why, I hope not,” returned Mr. Swiveller, “but the average number of letters it takes to soften her is six, and this time we have got as far as eight without any effect at all. I’ll write another tomorrow morning. I mean to blot it a good deal and shake some water over it out of the pepper-castor, to make it look penitent. ‘I’m in such a state of mind that I hardly know what I write’—blot—‘if you could see me at this minute shedding tears for my past misconduct’—pepper-castor—‘my hand trembles when I think’—blot again—if that don’t produce the effect, it’s all over.”
By this time Mr. Swiveller had finished his entry, and he now replaced his pencil in its little sheath and closed the book, in a perfectly grave and serious frame of mind. His friend discovered that it was time
