enlightened the world, if not the Thames, when he was thus interrupted; for he gazed sternly on the waiter’s countenance, and then looked round on the company generally, as if seeking for information relative to the new– comers.
‘Oh!’ said Mr. Winkle, rising, ‘some friends of mine—show them in. Very pleasant fellows,’ added Mr. Winkle, after the waiter had retired—‘officers of the 97th, whose acquaintance I made rather oddly this morning. You will like them very much.’
Mr. Pickwick’s equanimity was at once restored. The waiter returned, and ushered three gentlemen into the room.
‘Lieutenant Tappleton,’ said Mr. Winkle, ‘Lieutenant Tappleton, Mr. Pickwick—Doctor Payne, Mr. Pickwick—Mr. Snodgrass you have seen before, my friend Mr. Tupman, Doctor Payne—Doctor Slammer, Mr. Pickwick—Mr. Tupman, Doctor Slam—’
Here Mr. Winkle suddenly paused; for strong emotion was visible on the countenance both of Mr. Tupman and the doctor.
‘I have met this gentleman before,’ said the Doctor, with marked emphasis.
‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Winkle.
‘And—and that person, too, if I am not mistaken,’ said the doctor, bestowing a scrutinising glance on the green–coated stranger. ‘I think I gave that person a very pressing invitation last night, which he thought proper to decline.’ Saying which the doctor scowled magnanimously on the stranger, and whispered his friend Lieutenant Tappleton.
‘You don’t say so,’ said that gentleman, at the conclusion of the whisper.
‘I do, indeed,’ replied Doctor Slammer.
‘You are bound to kick him on the spot,’ murmured the owner of the camp–stool, with great importance.
‘Do be quiet, Payne,’ interposed the lieutenant. ‘Will you allow me to ask you, sir,’ he said, addressing Mr. Pickwick, who was considerably mystified by this very unpolite by–play—‘will you allow me to ask you, Sir, whether that person belongs to your party?’
‘No, Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘he is a guest of ours.’
‘He is a member of your club, or I am mistaken?’ said the lieutenant inquiringly.
‘Certainly not,’ responded Mr. Pickwick.
‘And never wears your club–button?’ said the lieutenant.
‘No—never!’ replied the astonished Mr. Pickwick.
Lieutenant Tappleton turned round to his friend Doctor Slammer, with a scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulder, as if implying some doubt of the accuracy of his recollection. The little doctor looked wrathful, but confounded; and Mr. Payne gazed with a ferocious aspect on the beaming countenance of the unconscious Pickwick.
‘Sir,’ said the doctor, suddenly addressing Mr. Tupman, in a tone which made that gentleman start as perceptibly as if a pin had been cunningly inserted in the calf of his leg, ‘you were at the ball here last night!’
Mr. Tupman gasped a faint affirmative, looking very hard at Mr. Pickwick all the while.
‘That person was your companion,’ said the doctor, pointing to the still unmoved stranger.
Mr. Tupman admitted the fact.
‘Now, sir,’ said the doctor to the stranger, ‘I ask you once again, in the presence of these gentlemen, whether you choose to give me your card, and to receive the treatment of a gentleman; or whether you impose upon me the necessity of personally chastising you on the spot?’
‘Stay, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I really cannot allow this matter to go any further without some explanation. Tupman, recount the circumstances.’
Mr. Tupman, thus solemnly adjured, stated the case in a few words; touched slightly on the borrowing of the coat; expatiated largely on its having been done ‘after dinner’; wound up with a little penitence on his own account; and left the stranger to clear himself as best he could.
He was apparently about to proceed to do so, when Lieutenant Tappleton, who had been eyeing him with great curiosity, said with considerable scorn, ‘Haven’t I seen you at the theatre, Sir?’
‘Certainly,’ replied the unabashed stranger.
‘He is a strolling actor!’ said the lieutenant contemptuously, turning to Doctor Slammer.—‘He acts in the piece that the officers of the 52nd get up at the Rochester Theatre to–morrow night. You cannot proceed in this affair, Slammer—impossible!’
‘Quite!’ said the dignified Payne.
‘Sorry to have placed you in this disagreeable situation,’ said Lieutenant Tappleton, addressing Mr. Pickwick; ‘allow me to suggest, that the best way of avoiding a recurrence of such scenes in future will be to be more select in the choice of your companions. Good–evening, Sir!’ and the lieutenant bounced out of the room.
‘And allow me to say, Sir,’ said the irascible Doctor Payne, ‘that if I had been Tappleton, or if I had been Slammer, I would have pulled your nose, Sir, and the nose of every man in this company. I would, sir—every man. Payne is my name, sir—Doctor Payne of the 43rd. Good–evening, Sir.’ Having concluded this speech, and uttered the last three words in a loud key, he stalked majestically after his friend, closely followed by Doctor Slammer, who said nothing, but contented himself by withering the company with a look. Rising rage and extreme bewilderment had swelled the noble breast of Mr. Pickwick, almost to the bursting of his waistcoat, during the delivery of the above defiance. He stood transfixed to the spot, gazing on vacancy. The closing of the door recalled him to himself. He rushed forward with fury in his looks, and fire in his eye. His hand was upon the lock of the door; in another instant it would have been on the throat of Doctor Payne of the 43rd, had not Mr. Snodgrass seized his revered leader by the coat tail, and dragged him backwards.
‘Restrain him,’ cried Mr. Snodgrass; ‘Winkle, Tupman—he must not peril his distinguished life in such a cause as this.’
‘Let me go,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Hold him tight,’ shouted Mr. Snodgrass; and by the united efforts of the whole company, Mr. Pickwick was forced into an arm–chair. ‘Leave him alone,’ said the green–coated stranger; ‘brandy–and–water—jolly old gentleman—lots of pluck—swallow this—ah!—capital stuff.’ Having previously tested the virtues of a bumper, which had been mixed by the dismal man, the stranger applied the glass to Mr. Pickwick’s mouth; and the remainder of its contents rapidly disappeared.
There was a short pause; the brandy–and–water had done its work; the amiable countenance of Mr. Pickwick was fast recovering its customary expression.
‘They are not worth your notice,’ said the dismal man.
‘You are right, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘they are not. I am ashamed to have been betrayed into this warmth of feeling. Draw your chair up to the table, Sir.’
The dismal man readily complied; a circle was again formed round the table, and harmony once more prevailed. Some lingering irritability appeared to find a resting–place in Mr. Winkle’s bosom, occasioned possibly by the temporary abstraction of his coat—though it is scarcely reasonable to suppose that so slight a circumstance can have excited even a passing feeling of anger in a Pickwickian’s breast. With this exception, their good–humour was completely restored; and the evening concluded with the conviviality with which it had begun.
Chapter 4
A Field Day and Bivouac—More new Friends—An Invitation to the Country
Many authors entertain, not only a foolish, but a really dishonest objection to acknowledge the sources whence they derive much valuable information. We have no such feeling. We are merely endeavouring to discharge, in an upright manner, the responsible duties of our editorial functions; and whatever ambition we might have felt under other circumstances to lay claim to the authorship of these adventures, a regard for truth forbids us to do more than claim the merit of their judicious arrangement and impartial narration. The Pickwick papers are our New River Head; and we may be compared to the New River Company. The labours of others have raised for us an immense reservoir of important facts. We merely lay them on, and communicate them, in a clear and gentle stream, through the medium of these pages, to a world thirsting for Pickwickian knowledge.
