“Fifteen more!” said Mr. Tapley. “How handsome and how young you look! Six more! The last half-dozen warn’t a fair one, and must be done over again. Lord bless you, what a treat it is to see you! One more! Well, I never was so jolly. Just a few more, on account of there not being any credit in it!”
When Mr. Tapley stopped in these calculations in simple addition, he did it, not because he was at all tired of the exercise, but because he was out of breath. The pause reminded him of other duties.
“Mr. Martin Chuzzlewit’s outside,” he said. “I left him under the cartshed, while I came on to see if there was anybody here. We want to keep quiet tonight, till we know the news from you, and what it’s best for us to do.”
“There’s not a soul in the house, except the kitchen company,” returned the hostess. “If they were to know you had come back, Mark, they’d have a bonfire in the street, late as it is.”
“But they mustn’t know it tonight, my precious soul,” said Mark; “so have the house shut, and the kitchen fire made up; and when it’s all ready, put a light in the winder, and we’ll come in. One more! I long to hear about old friends. You’ll tell me all about ’em, won’t you: Mr. Pinch, and the butcher’s dog down the street, and the terrier over the way, and the wheelwright’s, and every one of ’em. When I first caught sight of the church tonight, I thought the steeple would have choked me, I did. One more! Won’t you? Not a very little one to finish off with?”
“You have had plenty, I am sure,” said the hostess. “Go along with your foreign manners!”
“That ain’t foreign, bless you!” cried Mark. “Native as oysters, that is! One more, because it’s native! As a mark of respect for the land we live in! This don’t count as between you and me, you understand,” said Mr. Tapley. “I ain’t a-kissing you now, you’ll observe. I have been among the patriots; I’m a-kissin’ my country.”
It would have been very unreasonable to complain of the exhibition of his patriotism with which he followed up this explanation, that it was at all lukewarm or indifferent. When he had given full expression to his nationality, he hurried off to Martin; while Mrs. Lupin, in a state of great agitation and excitement, prepared for their reception.
The company soon came tumbling out; insisting to each other that the Dragon clock was half an hour too fast, and that the thunder must have affected it. Impatient, wet, and weary though they were, Martin and Mark were overjoyed to see these old faces, and watched them with delighted interest as they departed from the house, and passed close by them.
“There’s the old tailor, Mark!” whispered Martin.
“There he goes, sir! A little bandier than he was, I think, sir, ain’t he? His figure’s so far altered, as it seems to me, that you might wheel a rather larger barrow between his legs as he walks, than you could have done conveniently when we know’d him. There’s Sam a-coming out, sir.”
“Ah, to be sure!” cried Martin; “Sam, the hostler. I wonder whether that horse of Pecksniff’s is alive still?”
“Not a doubt on it, sir,” returned Mark. “That’s a description of animal, sir, as will go on in a bony way peculiar to himself for a long time, and get into the newspapers at last under the title of ‘Sing’lar Tenacity of Life in a Quadruped.’ As if he had ever been alive in all his life, worth mentioning! There’s the clerk, sir—wery drunk, as usual.”
“I see him!” said Martin, laughing. “But, my life, how wet you are, Mark!”
“I am! What do you consider yourself, sir?”
“Oh, not half as bad,” said his fellow-traveller, with an air of great vexation. “I told you not to keep on the windy side, Mark, but to let us change and change about. The rain has been beating on you ever since it began.”
“You don’t know how it pleases me, sir,” said Mark, after a short silence, “if I may make so bold as say so, to hear you a-going on in that there uncommon considerate way of yours; which I don’t mean to attend to, never, but which, ever since that time when I was floored in Eden, you have showed.”
“Ah, Mark!” sighed Martin, “the less we say of that the better. Do I see the light yonder?”
“That’s the light!” cried Mark. “Lord bless her, what briskness she possesses! Now for it, sir. Neat wines, good beds, and first-rate entertainment for man or beast.”
The kitchen fire burnt clear and red, the table was spread out, the kettle boiled; the slippers were there, the bootjack too, sheets of ham were there, cooking on the gridiron; half-a-dozen eggs were there, poaching in the frying-pan; a plethoric cherry-brandy bottle was there, winking at a foaming jug of beer upon the table; rare provisions were there, dangling from the rafters as if you had only to open your mouth, and something exquisitely ripe and good would be glad of the excuse for tumbling into it. Mrs. Lupin, who for their sakes had dislodged the very cook, high priestess of the temple, with her own genial hands was dressing their repast.
It was impossible to help it—a ghost must have hugged her. The Atlantic Ocean and the Red Sea being, in that respect, all one, Martin hugged her instantly. Mr. Tapley (as if the idea were quite novel, and had never occurred to him before), followed, with much gravity, on the same side.
“Little did I ever think,” said Mrs. Lupin, adjusting her cap and laughing heartily; yes, and blushing too; “often as I have said that Mr. Pecksniff’s young gentlemen were the life and soul of the Dragon, and that without them it would be too dull to live in—little
