this meeting, to no purpose.”
“I beg you won’t mention it, sir,” said Mr. Winkle.
“I shall feel proud of your acquaintance, sir,” said the little Doctor.
“It will afford me the greatest pleasure to know you, sir,” replied Mr. Winkle. Thereupon the Doctor and Mr. Winkle shook hands, and then Mr. Winkle and Lieutenant Tappleton (the Doctor’s second), and then Mr. Winkle and the man with the camp-stool, and finally, Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass – the last-named gentleman in an excess of admiration at the noble conduct of his heroic friend.
“I think we may adjourn,” said Lieutenant Tappleton.
“Certainly,” added the Doctor.
“Unless,” interposed the man with the camp-stool, “unless Mr. Winkle feels himself aggrieved by the challenge; in which case, I submit, he has a right to satisfaction.”
Mr. Winkle, with great self-denial, expressed himself quite satisfied already.
“Or possibly,” said the man with the camp-stool, “the gentleman’s second may feel himself affronted with some observations which fell from me at an early period of this meeting: if so, I shall be happy to give him satisfaction immediately.”
Mr. Snodgrass hastily professed himself very much obliged with the handsome offer of the gentleman who had spoken last, which he was only induced to decline by his entire contentment with the whole proceedings. The two seconds adjusted the cases, and the whole party left the ground in a much more lively manner than they had proceeded to it.
“Do you remain long here?” inquired Dr. Slammer of Mr. Winkle, as they walked on most amicably together.
“I think we shall leave here the day after to-morrow,” was the reply.
“I trust I shall have the pleasure of seeing you and your friend at my rooms, and of spending a pleasant evening with you after this awkward mistake,” said the little Doctor; “are you disengaged this evening?”
“We have some friends here,” replied Mr. Winkle, “and I should not like to leave them to-night. Perhaps you and your friend will join us at the Bull?”
“With great pleasure,” said the little Doctor; “will ten o’clock be too late to look in for half an hour?”
“Oh dear no,” said Mr. Winkle. “I shall be most happy to introduce you to my friends, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman.”
“It will give me great pleasure, I am sure,” replied Dr. Slammer, little suspecting who Mr. Tupman was.
“You will be sure to come?” said Mr. Snodgrass.
“Oh, certainly.”
By this time they had reached the road. Cordial farewells were exchanged, and the party separated. Doctor Slammer and his friends repaired to the barracks, and Mr. Winkle, accompanied by Mr. Snodgrass, returned to their inn.
CHAPTER III
A New Acquaintance. The Stroller’s Tale. A Disagreeable Interruption, and an Unpleasant Encounter
Mr. Pickwick had felt some apprehensions in consequence of the unusual absence of his two friends, which their mysterious behaviour during the whole morning had by no means tended to diminish. It was, therefore, with more than ordinary pleasure that he rose to greet them when they again entered; and with more than ordinary interest that he inquired what had occurred to detain them from his society. In reply to his questions on this point, Mr. Snodgrass was about to offer an historical account of the circumstances just now detailed, when he was suddenly checked by observing that there were present, not only Mr. Tupman and their stage-coach companion of the preceding day, but another stranger of equally singular appearance. It was a care-worn looking man, whose sallow face, and deeply sunken eyes, were rendered still more striking than nature had made them, by the straight black hair which hung in matted disorder half way down his face. His eyes were almost unnaturally bright and piercing; his cheek-bones were high and prominent; and his jaws were so long and lank, that an observer would have supposed that he was drawing the flesh of his face in, for a moment, by some contraction of the muscles, if his half-opened mouth and immovable expression had not announced that it was his ordinary appearance. Round his neck he wore a green shawl, with the large ends straggling over his chest, and making their appearance occasionally beneath the worn buttonholes of his old waistcoat. His upper garment was a long black surtout; and below it he wore wide drab trousers, and large boots, running rapidly to seed.
It was on this uncouth-looking person that Mr. Winkle’s eye rested, and it was towards him that Mr. Pickwick extended his hand, when he said, “A friend of our friend’s here. We discovered this morning that our friend was connected with the theatre in this place, though he is not desirous to have it generally known, and this gentleman is a member of the same profession. He was about to favour us with a little anecdote connected with it when you entered.”
“Lots of anecdote,” said the green-coated stranger of the day before, advancing to Mr. Winkle and speaking in a low and confidential tone. “Rum fellow – does the heavy business – no actor – strange man – all sorts of miseries – Dismal Jemmy we call him on the circuit.” Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass politely welcomed the gentleman, elegantly designated as “Dismal Jemmy!” and calling for brandy and water, in imitation of the remainder of the company, seated themselves at the table.
“Now, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, “will you oblige us by proceeding with what you were going to relate?”
The dismal individual took a dirty roll of paper from his pocket, and turning to Mr. Snodgrass, who had just taken out his note-book, said in a hollow voice, perfectly in keeping with his outward man – “Are you the poet?”
“I – I do a little in that way,” replied Mr. Snodgrass, rather taken aback by the abruptness of the question.
“Ah! poetry makes life what lights and music do the stage – strip the one of its false embellishments, and the other of its illusions, and what is there real in either to live or care for?”
“Very true, sir,” replied Mr. Snodgrass.
“To be before the footlights,” continued the dismal man, “is like sitting at a grand court show, and admiring the silken dresses of the gaudy throng – to be behind them is to be the people who make that finery, uncared for and unknown, and left to sink or swim, to starve or live, as fortune wills it.”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Snodgrass: for the sunken eye of the dismal man rested on him, and he felt it necessary to say something.
“Go on, Jemmy,” said the Spanish traveller, “like black-eyed Susan – all in the Downs – no croaking – speak out – look lively.”
“Will you make another glass before you begin, sir?” said Mr. Pickwick.
The dismal man took the hint, and having mixed a glass of brandy and water, and slowly swallowed half of it, opened the roll of paper, and proceeded, partly to read, and partly to relate, the following incident, which we find recorded on the Transactions of the club as “The Stroller’s Tale.”
“There is nothing of the marvellous in what I am going to relate,” said the dismal man; “there is nothing even uncommon in it. Want and sickness are too common in many stations of life, to deserve more notice than is usually bestowed on the most ordinary vicissitudes of human nature.
