“I’m disappointed myself,” said Quilp, “out of mere friendly feeling for them; but you have real reasons, private reasons I have no doubt, for your disappointment, and therefore it comes heavier than mine.”
“Why, of course it does,” Dick observed, testily.
“Upon my word, I’m very sorry, very sorry. I’m rather cast down myself. As we are companions in adversity, shall we be companions in the surest way of forgetting it? If you had no particular business, now, to lead you in another direction,” urged Quilp, plucking him by the sleeve and looking slyly up into his face out of the corners of his eyes, “there is a house by the waterside where they have some of the noblest Schiedam—reputed to be smuggled, but that’s between ourselves—that can be got in all the world. The landlord knows me. There’s a little summerhouse overlooking the river, where we might take a glass of this delicious liquor with a whiff of the best tobacco—it’s in this case, and of the rarest quality, to my certain knowledge—and be perfectly snug and happy, could we possibly contrive it; or is there any very particular engagement that peremptorily takes you another way, Mr. Swiveller, eh?”
As the dwarf spoke, Dick’s face relaxed into a compliant smile, and his brows slowly unbent. By the time he had finished, Dick was looking down at Quilp in the same sly manner as Quilp was looking up at him, and there remained nothing more to be done but to set out for the house in question. This they did, straightway. The moment their backs were turned, little Jacob thawed, and resumed his crying from the point where Quilp had frozen him.
The summerhouse of which Mr. Quilp had spoken was a rugged wooden box, rotten and bare to see, which overhung the river’s mud, and threatened to slide down into it. The tavern to which it belonged was a crazy building, sapped and undermined by the rats, and only upheld by great bars of wood which were reared against its walls, and had propped it up so long that even they were decaying and yielding with their load, and of a windy night might be heard to creak and crack as if the whole fabric were about to come toppling down. The house stood—if anything so old and feeble could be said to stand—on a piece of waste ground, blighted with the unwholesome smoke of factory chimneys, and echoing the clank of iron wheels and rush of troubled water. Its internal accommodations amply fulfilled the promise of the outside. The rooms were low and damp, the clammy walls were pierced with chinks and holes, the rotten floors had sunk from their level, the very beams started from their places and warned the timid stranger from their neighbourhood.
To this inviting spot, entreating him to observe its beauties as they passed along, Mr. Quilp led Richard Swiveller, and on the table of the summerhouse, scored deep with many a gallows and initial letter, there soon appeared a wooden keg, full of the vaunted liquor. Drawing it off into the glasses with the skill of a practised hand, and mixing it with about a third part of water, Mr. Quilp assigned to Richard Swiveller his portion, and lighting his pipe from an end of candle in a very old and battered lantern, drew himself together upon a seat and puffed away.
“Is it good?” said Quilp, as Richard Swiveller smacked his lips, “is it strong and fiery? Does it make you wink, and choak, and your eyes water, and your breath come short—does it?”
“Does it?” cried Dick, throwing away a part of the contents of his glass, and filling it up with water, “why, man, you don’t mean to tell me that you drink such fire as this?”
“No!” rejoined Quilp, “Not drink it! Look here. And here. And here again. Not drink it!”
As he spoke, Daniel Quilp drew off and drank three small glassfulls of the raw spirit, and then with a horrible grimace took a great many pulls at his pipe, and swallowing the smoke, discharged it in a heavy cloud from his nose. This feat accomplished he drew himself together in his former position, and laughed excessively.
“Give us a toast!” cried Quilp, rattling on the table in a dexterous manner with his fist and elbow alternately, in a kind of tune, “a woman, a beauty. Let’s have a beauty for our toast and empty our glasses to the last drop. Her name, come!”
“If you want a name,” said Dick, “here’s Sophy Wackles.”
“Sophy Wackles,” screamed the dwarf, “Miss Sophy Wackles that is—Mrs. Richard Swiveller that shall be—that shall be—ha ha ha!”
“Ah!” said Dick, “you might have said that a few weeks ago, but it won’t do now, my buck. Immolating herself upon the shrine of Cheggs—”
“Poison Cheggs, cut Cheggs’s ears off,” rejoined Quilp. “I won’t hear of Cheggs. Her name is Swiveller or nothing. I’ll drink her health again, and her father’s, and her mother’s; and to all her sisters and brothers—the glorious family of the Wackleses—all the Wackleses in one glass—down with it to the dregs!”
“Well,” said Richard Swiveller, stopping short in the act of raising the glass to his lips and looking at the dwarf in a species of stupor as he flourished his arms and legs about: “you’re a jolly fellow, but of all the jolly fellows I ever saw or heard of, you have the queerest and most extraordinary way with you, upon my life you have.”
This candid declaration tended rather to increase than restrain Mr. Quilp’s eccentricities, and Richard Swiveller, astonished to see him in such a roystering vein, and drinking not a little himself, for company—began imperceptibly to become more companionable and confiding, so that, being judiciously led on by
