‘Mind!’ he said. ‘I won’t have it. I advise you not to revive the subject, neither to me nor anybody else. You can take a hint, if you choose as well as another man. There’s enough said about it. Come along!’
Taking up his part of the load again, when he had said these words, he hurried on so fast that Mr Pecksniff, at the other end of the portmanteau, found himself dragged forward, in a very inconvenient and ungraceful manner, to the great detriment of what is called by fancy gentlemen ‘the bark’ upon his shins, which were most unmercifully bumped against the hard leather and the iron buckles. In the course of a few minutes, however, Mr Jonas relaxed his speed, and suffered his companion to come up with him, and to bring the portmanteau into a tolerably straight position.
It was pretty clear that he regretted his late outbreak, and that he mistrusted its effect on Mr Pecksniff; for as often as that gentleman glanced towards Mr Jonas, he found Mr Jonas glancing at him, which was a new source of embarrassment. It was but a short-lived one, though, for Mr Jonas soon began to whistle, whereupon Mr Pecksniff, taking his cue from his friend, began to hum a tune melodiously.
‘Pretty nearly there, ain’t we?’ said Jonas, when this had lasted some time.
‘Close, my dear friend,’ said Mr Pecksniff.
‘What’ll they be doing, do you suppose?’ asked Jonas.
‘Impossible to say,’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘Giddy truants! They may be away from home, perhaps. I was going to – he! he! he! – I was going to propose,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘that we should enter by the back way, and come upon them like a clap of thunder, Mr Jonas.’
It might not have been easy to decide in respect of which of their manifold properties, Jonas, Mr Pecksniff, the carpet-bag, and the portmanteau, could be likened to a clap of thunder. But Mr Jonas giving his assent to this proposal, they stole round into the back yard, and softly advanced towards the kitchen window, through which the mingled light of fire and candle shone upon the darkening night.
Truly Mr Pecksniff is blessed in his children – in one of them, at any rate. The prudent Cherry – staff and scrip, and treasure of her doting father – there she sits, at a little table white as driven snow, before the kitchen fire, making up accounts! See the neat maiden, as with pen in hand, and calculating look addressed towards the ceiling and bunch of keys within a little basket at her side, she checks the housekeeping expenditure! From flat-iron, dish-cover, and warming-pan; from pot and kettle, face of brass footman, and black-leaded stove; bright glances of approbation wink and glow upon her. The very onions dangling from the beam, mantle and shine like cherubs’ cheeks. Something of the influence of those vegetables sinks into Mr Pecksniff’s nature. He weeps.
It is but for a moment, and he hides it from the observation of his friend – very carefully – by a somewhat elaborate use of his pocket-handkerchief, in fact; for he would not have his weakness known.
‘Pleasant,’ he murmured, ‘pleasant to a father’s feelings! My dear girl! Shall we let her know we are here, Mr Jonas?’
‘Why, I suppose you don’t mean to spend the evening in the stable, or the coach-house,’ he returned.
‘That, indeed, is not such hospitality as I would show to you, my friend,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, pressing his hand. And then he took a long breath, and tapping at the window, shouted with stentorian blandness:
‘Boh!’
Cherry dropped her pen and screamed. But innocence is ever bold, or should be. As they opened the door, the valiant girl exclaimed in a firm voice, and with a presence of mind which even in that trying moment did not desert her, ‘Who are you? What do you want? Speak! or I will call my Pa.’
Mr Pecksniff held out his arms. She knew him instantly, and rushed into his fond embrace.
‘It was thoughtless of us, Mr Jonas, it was very thoughtless,’ said Pecksniff, smoothing his daugther’s hair. ‘My darling, do you see that I am not alone!’
Not she. She had seen nothing but her father until now. She saw Mr Jonas now, though; and blushed, and hung her head down, as she gave him welcome.
But where was Merry? Mr Pecksniff didn’t ask the question in reproach, but in a vein of mildness touched with a gentle sorrow. She was upstairs, reading on the parlour couch. Ah! Domestic details had no charms for her. ‘But call her down,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a placid resignation. ‘Call her down, my love.’
She was called and came, all flushed and tumbled from reposing on the sofa; but none the worse for that. No, not at all. Rather the better, if anything.
‘Oh my goodness me!’ cried the arch girl, turning to her cousin when she had kissed her father on both cheeks, and in her frolicsome nature had bestowed a supernumerary salute upon the tip of his nose, ‘You here, fright! Well, I’m very thankful that you won’t trouble me much!’
‘What! you’re as lively as ever, are you?’ said Jonas. ‘Oh! You’re a wicked one!’
‘There, go along!’ retorted Merry, pushing him away. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what I shall ever do, if I have to see much of you. Go along, for gracious’ sake!’
Mr Pecksniff striking in here, with a request that Mr Jonas would immediately walk upstairs, he so far complied with the young lady’s adjuration as to go at once. But though he had the fair Cherry on his arm, he could not help looking back at her sister, and exchanging some further dialogue of the same bantering description, as they all four ascended to the parlour; where – for the young ladies happened, by good fortune, to be a little later than usual that night – the tea-board was at that moment being set out.
Mr Pinch was not at home, so they had it all to themselves, and were very snug and talkative, Jonas sitting between the two sisters, and displaying his gallantry in that engaging manner which was peculiar to him. It was a hard thing, Mr Pecksniff said, when tea was done, and cleared away, to leave so pleasant a little party, but having some important papers to examine in his own apartment, he must beg them to excuse him for half an hour. With this apology he withdrew, singing a careless strain as he went. He had not been gone five minutes, when Merry, who had been sitting in the window, apart from Jonas and her sister, burst into a half-smothered laugh, and skipped towards the door.
‘Hallo!’ cried Jonas. ‘Don’t go.’
‘Oh, I dare say!’ rejoined Merry, looking back. ‘You’re very anxious I should stay, fright, ain’t you?’
‘Yes, I am,’ said Jonas. ‘Upon my word I am. I want to speak to you.’ But as she left the room notwithstanding, he ran out after her, and brought her back, after a short struggle in the passage which scandalized Miss Cherry very much.
‘Upon my word, Merry,’ urged that young lady, ‘I wonder at you! There are bounds even to absurdity, my dear.’
‘Thank you, my sweet,’ said Merry, pursing up her rosy Lips. ‘Much obliged to it for its advice. Oh! do leave me alone, you monster, do!’ This entreaty was wrung from her by a new proceeding on the part of Mr Jonas, who pulled her down, all breathless as she was, into a seat beside him on the sofa, having at the same time Miss Cherry upon the other side.
‘Now,’ said Jonas, clasping the waist of each; ‘I have got both arms full, haven’t I?’
‘One of them will be black and blue to-morrow, if you don’t let me go,’ cried the playful Merry.
‘Ah! I don’t mind your pinching,’ grinned Jonas, ‘a bit.’
‘Pinch him for me, Cherry, pray,’ said Mercy. ‘I never did hate anybody so much as I hate this creature, I declare!’
‘No, no, don’t say that,’ urged Jonas, ‘and don’t pinch either, because I want to be serious. I say – Cousin Charity – ’
‘Well! what?’ she answered sharply.
‘I want to have some sober talk,’ said Jonas; ‘I want to prevent any mistakes, you know, and to put everything upon a pleasant understanding. That’s desirable and proper, ain’t it?’
Neither of the sisters spoke a word. Mr Jonas paused and cleared his throat, which was very dry.
‘She’ll not believe what I am going to say, will she, cousin?’ said Jonas, timidly squeezing Miss Charity.
‘Really, Mr Jonas, I don’t know, until I hear what it is. It’s quite impossible!’
‘Why, you see,’ said Jonas, ‘her way always being to make game of people, I know she’ll laugh, or pretend to – I know that, beforehand. But you can tell her I’m in earnest, cousin; can’t you? You’ll confess you know, won’t you? You’ll be honourable, I’m sure,’ he added persuasively.
No answer. His throat seemed to grow hotter and hotter, and to be more and more difficult of control.
‘You see, Cousin Charity,’ said Jonas, ‘nobody but you can tell her what pains I took to get into her company when you were both at the boarding-house in the city, because nobody’s so well aware of it, you know. Nobody else can tell her how hard I tried to get to know you better, in order that I might get to know her without seeming to wish it; can they? I always asked you about her, and said where had she gone, and when would she come, and how lively she was, and all that; didn’t I, cousin? I know you’ll tell her so, if you haven’t told her so already, and – and – I dare say you have, because I’m sure you’re honourable, ain’t you?’
Still not a word. The right arm of Mr Jonas – the elder sister sat upon his right – may have been sensible of some tumultuous throbbing which was not within itself; but nothing else apprised him that his words had had the least effect.
‘Even if you kept it to yourself, and haven’t told her,’ resumed Jonas, ‘it don’t much matter, because you’ll bear honest witness now; won’t you? We’ve been very good friends from the first; haven’t we? and of course we shall be quite friends in future, and so I don’t mind speaking before you a bit. Cousin Mercy, you’ve heard what I’ve been saying. She’ll confirm it, every word; she must. Will you have me for your husband? Eh?’
As he released his hold of Charity, to put this question with better effect, she started up and hurried away to her own room, marking her progress as she went by such a train of passionate and incoherent sound, as nothing but a slighted woman in her anger could produce.
‘Let me go away. Let me go after her,’ said Merry, pushing him off, and giving him – to tell the truth – more than one sounding slap upon his outstretched face.
‘Not till you say yes. You haven’t told me. Will you have me for your husband?’
‘No, I won’t. I can’t bear the sight of you. I have told you so a hundred times. You are a fright. Besides, I always thought you liked my sister best. We all thought so.’
‘But that wasn’t my fault,’ said Jonas.
‘Yes it was; you know it was.’
‘Any trick is fair in love,’ said Jonas. ‘She may have thought I liked her best, but you didn’t.’
‘I did!’
‘No, you didn’t. You never could have thought I liked her best, when you were by.’
‘There’s no accounting for tastes,’ said Merry; ‘at least I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t know what I mean. Let me go to her.’
‘Say “Yes,” and then I will.’
‘If I ever brought myself to say so, it should only be that I might hate and tease you all my life.’
‘That’s as good,’ cried Jonas, ‘as saying it right out. It’s a bargain, cousin. We’re a pair, if ever there was one.’
This gallant speech was succeeded by a confused noise of kissing and slapping; and then the fair but much dishevelled Merry broke away, and followed in the footsteps of her sister.
Now whether Mr Pecksniff had been listening – which in one of his character appears impossible; or divined almost by inspiration what the matter was – which, in a man of his sagacity is far more probable; or happened by sheer good fortune to find himself in exactly the right place, at precisely the right time – which, under the special guardianship in which he lived might very reasonably happen; it is quite certain that at the moment when the sisters came together in their own room, he appeared at the chamber door. And a marvellous contrast it was – they so heated, noisy, and vehement; he so calm, so self-possessed, so cool and full of peace, that not a hair upon his head was stirred.
‘Children!’ said Mr Pecksniff, spreading out his hands in wonder, but not before he had shut the door, and set his back against it. ‘Girls! Daughters! What is this?’
‘The wretch; the apostate; the false, mean, odious villain; has before my very face proposed to Mercy!’ was his eldest daughter’s answer.
‘Who has proposed to Mercy!’ asked Mr Pecksniff.
‘He has. That thing, Jonas, downstairs.’
‘Jonas proposed to Mercy?’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Aye, aye! Indeed!’
‘Have you nothing else to say?’ cried Charity. ‘Am I to be driven mad, papa? He has proposed to Mercy, not to me.’
‘Oh, fie! For shame!’ said Mr Pecksniff, gravely. ‘Oh, for shame! Can the triumph of a sister move you to this terrible display, my child? Oh, really this is very sad! I am sorry; I am surprised and hurt to see you so. Mercy, my girl, bless you! See to her. Ah, envy, envy, what a passion you are!’
Uttering this apostrophe in a tone full of grief and lamentation, Mr Pecksniff left the room (taking care to shut the door behind him), and walked downstairs into the parlour. There he found his intended son-in-law, whom he seized by both hands.
‘Jonas!’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘Jonas! the dearest wish of my heart is now fulfilled!’
‘Very well; I’m glad to hear it,’ said Jonas. ‘That’ll do. I say! As it ain’t the one you’re so fond of, you must come down with another thousand, Pecksniff. You must make it up five. It’s worth that, to keep your treasure to yourself, you know. You get off very cheap that way, and haven’t a sacrifice to make.’
The grin with which he accompanied this, set off his other attractions to such unspeakable advantage, that even Mr Pecksniff lost his presence of mind for a moment, and looked at the young man as if he were quite stupefied with wonder and admiration. But he quickly regained his composure, and was in the very act of changing the subject, when a hasty step was heard without, and Tom Pinch, in a state of great excitement, came darting into the room.
On seeing a stranger there, apparently engaged with Mr Pecksniff in private conversation, Tom was very much abashed, though he still looked as if he had something of great importance to communicate, which would be a sufficient apology for his intrusion.
‘Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff, ‘this is hardly decent. You will excuse my saying that I think your conduct scarcely decent, Mr Pinch.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ replied Tom, ‘for not knocking at the door.’
‘Rather beg this gentleman’s pardon, Mr Pinch,’ said Pecksniff. ‘I know you; he does not. – My young man, Mr Jonas.’
The son-in-law that was to be gave him a slight nod – not actively disdainful or contemptuous, only passively; for he was in a good humour.
‘Could I speak a word with you, sir, if you please?’ said Tom. ‘It’s rather pressing.’
‘It should be very pressing to justify this strange behaviour, Mr Pinch,’ returned his master. ‘Excuse me for one moment, my dear friend. Now, sir, what is the reason of this rough intrusion?’
‘I am very sorry, sir, I am sure,’ said Tom, standing, cap in hand, before his patron in the passage; ‘and I know it must have a very rude appearance – ’
‘It has a very rude appearance, Mr Pinch.’
‘Yes, I feel that, sir; but the truth is, I was so surprised to see them, and knew you would be too, that I ran home very fast indeed, and really hadn’t enough command over myself to know what I was doing very well. I was in the church just now, sir, touching the organ for my own amusement, when I happened to look round, and saw a gentleman and lady standing in the aisle listening. They seemed to be strangers, sir, as well as I could make out in the dusk; and I thought I didn’t know them; so presently I left off, and said, would they walk up into the organ-loft, or take a seat? No, they said, they wouldn’t do that; but they thanked me for the music they had heard. In fact,’ observed Tom, blushing, ‘they said, “Delicious music!” at least, she did; and I am sure that was a greater pleasure and honour to me than any compliment I could have had. I – I – beg your pardon sir;’ he was all in a tremble, and dropped his hat for the second time ‘but I – I’m rather flurried, and I fear I’ve wandered from the point.’
‘If you will come back to it, Thomas,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with an icy look, ‘I shall feel obliged.’
‘Yes, sir,’ returned Tom, ‘certainly. They had a posting carriage at the porch, sir, and had stopped to hear the organ, they said. And then they said —she said, I mean, “I believe you live with Mr Pecksniff, sir?” I said I had that honour, and I took the liberty, sir,’ added Tom, raising his eyes to his benefactor’s face, ‘of saying, as I always will and must, with your permission, that I was under great obligations to you, and never could express my sense of them sufficiently.’
‘That,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘was very, very wrong. Take your time, Mr Pinch.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ cried Tom. ‘On that they asked me – she asked, I mean – “Wasn’t there a bridle road to Mr Pecksniff’s house?”’
Mr Pecksniff suddenly became full of interest.
‘“Without going by the Dragon?” When I said there was, and said how happy I should be to show it ‘em, they sent the carriage on by the road, and came with me across the meadows. I left ‘em at the turnstile to run forward and tell you they were coming, and they’ll be here, sir, in – in less than a minute’s time, I should say,’ added Tom, fetching his breath with difficulty.
‘Now, who,’ said Mr Pecksniff, pondering, ‘who may these people be?’
‘Bless my soul, sir!’ cried Tom, ‘I meant to mention that at first, I thought I had. I knew them – her, I mean – directly. The gentleman who was ill at the Dragon, sir, last winter; and the young lady who attended him.’
Tom’s teeth chattered in his head, and he positively staggered with amazement, at witnessing the extraordinary effect produced on Mr Pecksniff by these simple words. The dread of losing the old man’s favour almost as soon as they were reconciled, through the mere fact of having Jonas in the house; the impossibility of dismissing Jonas, or shutting him up, or tying him hand and foot and putting him in the coal-cellar, without offending him beyond recall; the horrible discordance prevailing in the establishment, and the impossibility of reducing it to decent harmony with Charity in loud hysterics, Mercy in the utmost disorder, Jonas in the parlour, and Martin Chuzzlewit and his young charge upon the very doorsteps; the total hopelessness of being able to disguise or feasibly explain this state of rampant confusion; the sudden accumulation over his devoted head of every complicated perplexity and entanglement for his extrication from which he had trusted to time, good fortune, chance, and his own plotting, so filled the entrapped architect with dismay, that if Tom could have been a Gorgon staring at Mr Pecksniff, and Mr Pecksniff could have been a Gorgon staring at Tom, they could not have horrified each other half so much as in their own bewildered persons.
‘Dear, dear!’ cried Tom, ‘what have I done? I hoped it would be a pleasant surprise, sir. I thought you would like to know.’
But at that moment a loud knocking was heard at the hall door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MORE AMERICAN EXPERIENCES, MARTIN TAKES A PARTNER, AND MAKES A PURCHASE. SOME ACCOUNT OF EDEN, AS IT APPEARED ON PAPER. ALSO OF THE BRITISH LION. ALSO OF THE KIND OF SYMPATHY PROFESSED AND ENTERTAINED BY THE WATERTOAST ASSOCIATION OF UNITED SYMPATHISERS
The knocking at Mr Pecksniff’s door, though loud enough, bore no resemblance whatever to the noise of an American railway train at full speed. It may be well to begin the present chapter with this frank admission, lest the reader should imagine that the sounds now deafening this history’s ears have any connection with the knocker on Mr Pecksniff’s door, or with the great amount of agitation pretty equally divided between that worthy man and Mr Pinch, of which its strong performance was the cause.
Mr Pecksniff’s house is more than a thousand leagues away; and again this happy chronicle has Liberty and Moral Sensibility for its high companions. Again it breathes the blessed air of Independence; again it contemplates with pious awe that moral sense which renders unto Ceasar nothing that is his; again inhales that sacred atmosphere which was the life of him – oh noble patriot, with many followers! – who dreamed of Freedom in a slave’s embrace, and waking sold her offspring and his own in public markets.
How the wheels clank and rattle, and the tram-road shakes, as the train rushes on! And now the engine yells, as it were lashed and tortured like a living labourer, and writhed in agony. A poor fancy; for steel and iron are of infinitely greater account, in this commonwealth, than flesh and blood. If the cunning work of man be urged beyond its power of endurance, it has within it the elements of its own revenge; whereas the wretched mechanism of the Divine Hand is dangerous with no such property, but may be tampered with, and crushed, and broken, at the driver’s pleasure. Look at that engine! It shall cost a man more dollars in the way of penalty and fine, and satisfaction of the outraged law, to deface in wantonness that senseless mass of metal, than to take the lives of twenty human creatures! Thus the stars wink upon the bloody stripes; and Liberty pulls down her cap upon her eyes, and owns Oppression in its vilest aspect, for her sister.
The engine-driver of the train whose noise awoke us to the present chapter was certainly troubled with no such reflections as these; nor is it very probable that his mind was disturbed by any reflections at all. He leaned with folded arms and crossed legs against the side of the carriage, smoking; and, except when he expressed, by a grunt as short as his pipe, his approval of some particularly dexterous aim on the part of his colleague, the fireman, who beguiled his leisure by throwing logs of wood from the tender at the numerous stray cattle on the line, he preserved a composure so immovable, and an indifference so complete, that if the locomotive had been a sucking-pig, he could not have been more perfectly indifferent to its doings. Notwithstanding the tranquil state of this officer, and his unbroken peace of mind, the train was proceeding with tolerable rapidity; and the rails being but poorly laid, the jolts and bumps it met with in its progress were neither slight nor few.
There were three great caravans or cars attached. The ladies’ car, the gentlemen’s car, and the car for negroes; the latter painted black, as an appropriate compliment to its company. Martin and Mark Tapley were in the first, as it was the most comfortable; and, being far from full, received other gentlemen who, like them, were unblessed by the society of ladies of their own. They were seated side by side, and were engaged in earnest conversation.
‘And so, Mark,’ said Martin, looking at him with an anxious expression, ‘and so you are glad we have left New York far behind us, are you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Mark. ‘I am. Precious glad.’
‘Were you not “jolly” there?’ asked Martin.
‘On the contrairy, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘The jolliest week as ever I spent in my life, was that there week at Pawkins’s.’
‘What do you think of our prospects?’ inquired Martin, with an air that plainly said he had avoided the question for some time.
‘Uncommon bright, sir,’ returned Mark. ‘Impossible for a place to have a better name, sir, than the Walley of Eden. No man couldn’t think of settling in a better place than the Walley of Eden. And I’m told,’ added Mark, after a pause, ‘as there’s lots of serpents there, so we shall come out, quite complete and reg’lar.’
So far from dwelling upon this agreeable piece of information with the least dismay, Mark’s face grew radiant as he called it to mind; so very radiant, that a stranger might have supposed he had all his life been yearning for the society of serpents, and now hailed with delight the approaching consummation of his fondest wishes.
‘Who told you that?’ asked Martin, sternly.
‘A military officer,’ said Mark.
‘Confound you for a ridiculous fellow!’ cried Martin, laughing heartily in spite of himself. ‘What military officer? You know they spring up in every field.’
‘As thick as scarecrows in England, sir,’ interposed Mark, ‘which is a sort of milita themselves, being entirely coat and wescoat, with a stick inside. Ha, ha! – Don’t mind me, sir; it’s my way sometimes. I can’t help being jolly. Why it was one of them inwading conquerors at Pawkins’s, as told me. “Am I rightly informed,” he says – not exactly through his nose, but as if he’d got a stoppage in it, very high up – “that you’re a-going to the Walley of Eden?” “I heard some talk on it,” I told him. “Oh!” says he, “if you should ever happen to go to bed there – you may, you know,” he says, “in course of time as civilisation progresses – don’t forget to take a axe with you.” I looks at him tolerable hard. “Fleas?” says I. “And more,” says he. “Wampires?” says I. “And more,” says he. “Musquitoes, perhaps?” says I. “And more,” says he. “What more?” says I. “Snakes more,” says he; “rattle-snakes. You’re right to a certain extent, stranger. There air some catawampous chawers in the small way too, as graze upon a human pretty strong; but don’t mind them– they’re company. It’s snakes,” he says, “as you’ll object to; and whenever you wake and see one in a upright poster on your bed,” he says, “like a corkscrew with the handle off a-sittin’ on its bottom ring, cut him down, for he means wenom.”’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this before!’ cried Martin, with an expression of face which set off the cheerfulness of Mark’s visage to great advantage.
‘I never thought on it, sir,’ said Mark. ‘It come in at one ear, and went out at the other. But Lord love us, he was one of another Company, I dare say, and only made up the story that we might go to his Eden, and not the opposition one.’
‘There’s some probability in that,’ observed Martin. ‘I can honestly say that I hope so, with all my heart.’
‘I’ve not a doubt about it, sir,’ returned Mark, who, full of the inspiriting influence of the anecodote upon himself, had for the moment forgotten its probable effect upon his master; ‘anyhow, we must live, you know, sir.’
‘Live!’ cried Martin. ‘Yes, it’s easy to say live; but if we should happen not to wake when rattlesnakes are making corkscrews of themselves upon our beds, it may be not so easy to do it.’
‘And that’s a fact,’ said a voice so close in his ear that it tickled him. ‘That’s dreadful true.’
Martin looked round, and found that a gentleman, on the seat behind, had thrust his head between himself and Mark, and sat with his chin resting on the back rail of their little bench, entertaining himself with their conversation. He was as languid and listless in his looks as most of the gentlemen they had seen; his cheeks were so hollow that he seemed to be always sucking them in; and the sun had burnt him, not a wholesome red or brown, but dirty yellow. He had bright dark eyes, which he kept half closed; only peeping out of the corners, and even then with a glance that seemed to say, ‘Now you won’t overreach me; you want to, but you won’t.’ His arms rested carelessly on his knees as he leant forward; in the palm of his left hand, as English rustics have their slice of cheese, he had a cake of tobacco; in his right a penknife. He struck into the dialogue with as little reserve as if he had been specially called in, days before, to hear the arguments on both sides, and favour them with his opinion; and he no more contemplated or cared for the possibility of their not desiring the honour of his acquaintance or interference in their private affairs than if he had been a bear or a buffalo.
‘That,’ he repeated, nodding condescendingly to Martin, as to an outer barbarian and foreigner, ‘is dreadful true. Darn all manner of vermin.’
Martin could not help frowning for a moment, as if he were disposed to insinuate that the gentleman had unconsciously ‘darned’ himself. But remembering the wisdom of doing at Rome as Romans do, he smiled with the pleasantest expression he could assume upon so short a notice.
Their new friend said no more just then, being busily employed in cutting a quid or plug from his cake of tobacco, and whistling softly to himself the while. When he had shaped it to his liking, he took out his old plug, and deposited the same on the back of the seat between Mark and Martin, while he thrust the new one into the hollow of his cheek, where it looked like a large walnut, or tolerable pippin. Finding it quite satisfactory, he stuck the point of his knife into the old plug, and holding it out for their inspection, remarked with the air of a man who had not lived in vain, that it was ‘used up considerable.’ Then he tossed it away; put his knife into one pocket and his tobacco into another; rested his chin upon the rail as before; and approving of the pattern on Martin’s waistcoat, reached out his hand to feel the texture of that garment.
‘What do you call this now?’ he asked.
‘Upon my word’ said Martin, ‘I don’t know what it’s called.’
‘It’ll cost a dollar or more a yard, I reckon?’
‘I really don’t know.’
‘In my country,’ said the gentleman, ‘we know the cost of our own pro-duce.’
Martin not discussing the question, there was a pause.
‘Well!’ resumed their new friend, after staring at them intently during the whole interval of silence; ‘how’s the unnat’ral old parent by this time?’
Mr Tapley regarding this inquiry as only another version of the impertinent English question, ‘How’s your mother?’ would have resented it instantly, but for Martin’s prompt interposition.
‘You mean the old country?’ he said.
‘Ah!’ was the reply. ‘How’s she? Progressing back’ards, I expect, as usual? Well! How’s Queen Victoria?’
‘In good health, I believe,’ said Martin.
‘Queen Victoria won’t shake in her royal shoes at all, when she hears to-morrow named,’ observed the stranger, ‘No.’
‘Not that I am aware of. Why should she?’