“You were eavesdropping at that door, you vagabond!” said this gentleman.
Mr. Pecksniff cast him off, as Saint George might have repudiated the Dragon in that animal’s last moments, and said:
“Where is Mrs. Lupin, I wonder! can the good woman possibly be aware that there is a person here who—”
“Stay!” said the gentleman. “Wait a bit. She does know. What then?”
“What then, sir?” cried Mr. Pecksniff. “What then? Do you know, sir, that I am the friend and relative of that sick gentleman? That I am his protector, his guardian, his—”
“Not his niece’s husband,” interposed the stranger, “I’ll be sworn; for he was there before you.”
“What do you mean?” said Mr. Pecksniff, with indignant surprise. “What do you tell me, sir?”
“Wait a bit!” cried the other, “Perhaps you are a cousin—the cousin who lives in this place?”
“I am the cousin who lives in this place,” replied the man of worth.
“Your name is Pecksniff?” said the gentleman.
“It is.”
“I am proud to know you, and I ask your pardon,” said the gentleman, touching his hat, and subsequently diving behind his cravat for a shirt-collar, which however he did not succeed in bringing to the surface. “You behold in me, sir, one who has also an interest in that gentleman upstairs. Wait a bit.”
As he said this, he touched the tip of his high nose, by way of intimation that he would let Mr. Pecksniff into a secret presently; and pulling off his hat, began to search inside the crown among a mass of crumpled documents and small pieces of what may be called the bark of broken cigars; whence he presently selected the cover of an old letter, begrimed with dirt and redolent of tobacco.
“Read that,” he cried, giving it to Mr. Pecksniff.
“This is addressed to Chevy Slyme, Esquire,” said that gentleman.
“You know Chevy Slyme, Esquire, I believe?” returned the stranger.
Mr. Pecksniff shrugged his shoulders as though he would say “I know there is such a person, and I am sorry for it.”
“Very good,” remarked the gentleman. “That is my interest and business here.” With that he made another dive for his shirt-collar and brought up a string.
“Now, this is very distressing, my friend,” said Mr. Pecksniff, shaking his head and smiling composedly. “It is very distressing to me, to be compelled to say that you are not the person you claim to be. I know Mr. Slyme, my friend; this will not do; honesty is the best policy; you had better not; you had indeed.”
“Stop” cried the gentleman, stretching forth his right arm, which was so tightly wedged into his threadbare sleeve that it looked like a cloth sausage. “Wait a bit!”
He paused to establish himself immediately in front of the fire with his back towards it. Then gathering the skirts of his coat under his left arm, and smoothing his moustache with his right thumb and forefinger, he resumed:
“I understand your mistake, and I am not offended. Why? Because it’s complimentary. You suppose I would set myself up for Chevy Slyme. Sir, if there is a man on earth whom a gentleman would feel proud and honoured to be mistaken for, that man is my friend Slyme. For he is, without an exception, the highest-minded, the most independent-spirited, most original, spiritual, classical, talented, the most thoroughly Shakspearian, if not Miltonic, and at the same time the most disgustingly-unappreciated dog I know. But, sir, I have not the vanity to attempt to pass for Slyme. Any other man in the wide world, I am equal to; but Slyme is, I frankly confess, a great many cuts above me. Therefore you are wrong.”
“I judged from this,” said Mr. Pecksniff, holding out the cover of the letter.
“No doubt you did,” returned the gentleman. “But, Mr. Pecksniff, the whole thing resolves itself into an instance of the peculiarities of genius. Every man of true genius has his peculiarity. Sir, the peculiarity of my friend Slyme is, that he is always waiting round the corner. He is perpetually round the corner, sir. He is round the corner at this instant. Now,” said the gentleman, shaking his forefinger before his nose, and planting his legs wider apart as he looked attentively in Mr. Pecksniff’s face, “that is a remarkably curious and interesting trait in Mr. Slyme’s character; and whenever Slyme’s life comes to be written, that trait must be thoroughly worked out by his biographer, or society will not be satisfied. Observe me, society will not be satisfied!”
Mr. Pecksniff coughed.
“Slyme’s biographer, sir, whoever he may be,” resumed the gentleman, “must apply to me; or, if I am gone to that what’s-his-name from which no thingumbob comes back, he must apply to my executors for leave to search among my papers. I have taken a few notes in my poor way, of some of that man’s proceedings—my adopted brother, sir—which would amaze you. He made use of an expression, sir, only on the fifteenth of last month when he couldn’t meet a little bill and the other party wouldn’t renew, which would have done honour to Napoleon Bonaparte in addressing the French army.”
“And pray,” asked Mr. Pecksniff, obviously not quite at his ease, “what may be Mr. Slyme’s business here, if I may be permitted to inquire, who am compelled by a regard for my own character to disavow all interest in his proceedings?”
“In the first place,” returned the gentleman, “you will permit me to say, that I
