That punctual servant of all work, the sun, had just risen, and begun to strike a light on the morning of the thirteenth of May, one thousand eight hundred and twenty-seven, when Mr. Samuel Pickwick burst like another sun from his slumbers3, threw open his chamber4 window, and looked out upon the world beneath. Goswell Street was at his feet, Goswell Street was on his right hand — as far as the eye could reach, Goswell Street extended on his left; and the opposite side of Goswell Street was over the way. ‘Such,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, ‘are the narrow views of those philosophers who, content with examining the things that lie before them, look not to the truths which are hidden beyond. As well might I be content to gaze on Goswell Street for ever, without one effort to penetrate6 to the hidden countries which on every side surround it.’ And having given vent1 to this beautiful reflection, Mr. Pickwick proceeded to put himself into his clothes, and his clothes into his portmanteau. Great men are seldom over scrupulous7 in the arrangement of their attire8; the operation of shaving, dressing9, and coffee-imbibing was soon performed; and, in another hour, Mr. Pickwick, with his portmanteau in his hand, his telescope in his greatcoat pocket, and his note-book in his waistcoat, ready for the reception of any discoveries worthy10 of being noted11 down, had arrived at the coach-stand in St. Martin’s-le–Grand. ‘Cab!’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Here you are, sir,’ shouted a strange specimen12 of the human race, in a sackcloth coat, and apron13 of the same, who, with a brass14 label and number round his neck, looked as if he were catalogued in some collection of rarities. This was the waterman. ‘Here you are, sir. Now, then, fust cab!’ And the first cab having been fetched from the public-house, where he had been smoking his first pipe, Mr. Pickwick and his portmanteau were thrown into the vehicle.
‘Golden Cross,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Only a bob’s vorth, Tommy,’ cried the driver sulkily, for the information of his friend the waterman, as the cab drove off.
‘How old is that horse, my friend?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his nose with the shilling he had reserved for the fare.
‘Forty-two,’ replied the driver, eyeing him askant.
‘What!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand upon his note-book. The driver reiterated15 his former statement. Mr. Pickwick looked very hard at the man’s face, but his features were immovable, so he noted down the fact forthwith. ‘And how long do you keep him out at a time?‘inquired Mr. Pickwick, searching for further information.
‘Two or three veeks,’ replied the man.
‘Weeks!’ said Mr. Pickwick in astonishment17, and out came the note-book again.
‘He lives at Pentonwil when he’s at home,’ observed the driver coolly, ‘but we seldom takes him home, on account of his weakness.’
‘On account of his weakness!’ reiterated the perplexed18 Mr. Pickwick.
‘He always falls down when he’s took out o’ the cab,’ continued the driver, ‘but when he’s in it, we bears him up werry tight, and takes him in werry short, so as he can’t werry well fall down; and we’ve got a pair o’ precious large wheels on, so ven he does move, they run after him, and he must go on — he can’t help it.’
Mr. Pickwick entered every word of this statement in his note-book, with the view of communicating it to the club, as a singular instance of the tenacity19 of life in horses under trying circumstances. The entry was scarcely completed when they reached the Golden Cross. Down jumped the driver, and out got Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle, who had been anxiously waiting the arrival of their illustrious leader, crowded to welcome him.
‘Here’s your fare,’ said Mr. Pickwick, holding out the shilling to the driver.
What was the learned man’s astonishment, when that unaccountable person flung the money on the pavement, and requested in figurative terms to be allowed the pleasure of fighting him (Mr. Pickwick) for the amount!
‘You are mad,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.
‘Or drunk,’ said Mr. Winkle.
‘Or both,’ said Mr. Tupman.
‘Come on!’ said the cab-driver, sparring away like clockwork. ‘Come on — all four on you.’
‘Here’s a lark20!’ shouted half a dozen hackney coachmen. ‘Go to vork, Sam! — and they crowded with great glee round the party.
‘What’s the row, Sam?’ inquired one gentleman in black calico sleeves.
‘Row!’ replied the cabman, ‘what did he want my number for?’ ‘I didn’t want your number,’ said the astonished Mr. Pickwick.
‘What did you take it for, then?’ inquired the cabman.
‘I didn’t take it,’ said Mr. Pickwick indignantly.
‘Would anybody believe,’ continued the cab-driver, appealing to the crowd, ‘would anybody believe as an informer’ud go about in a man’s cab, not only takin’ down his number, but ev’ry word he says into the bargain’ (a light flashed upon Mr. Pickwick — it was the note-book).
‘Did he though?’ inquired another cabman.
‘Yes, did he,’ replied the first; ‘and then arter aggerawatin’ me to assault him, gets three witnesses here to prove it. But I’ll give it him, if I’ve six months for it. Come on!’ and the cabman dashed his hat upon the ground, with a reckless disregard of his own private property, and knocked Mr. Pickwick’s spectacles off, and followed up the attack with a blow on Mr. Pickwick’s nose, and another on Mr. Pickwick’s chest, and a third in Mr. Snodgrass’s eye, and a fourth, by way of variety, in Mr. Tupman’s waistcoat, and then danced into the road, and then back again to the pavement, and finally dashed the whole temporary supply of breath out of Mr. Winkle’s body; and all in half a dozen seconds.
‘Where’s an officer?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.
‘Put ’em under the pump,’ suggested a hot-pieman.
‘You shall smart for this,’ gasped21 Mr. Pickwick.
‘Informers!’ shouted the crowd.
‘Come on,’ cried the cabman, who had been sparring without cessation the whole time.
The mob hitherto had been passive spectators of the scene, but as the intelligence of the Pickwickians being informers was spread among them, they began to canvass22 with considerable vivacity23 the propriety24 of enforcing the heated pastry-vendor’s proposition: and there is no saying what acts of personal aggression25 they might have committed, had not the affray been unexpectedly terminated by the interposition of a new-comer.
‘What’s the fun?’ said a rather tall, thin, young man, in a green coat, emerging suddenly from the coach-yard.
‘informers!’ shouted the crowd again.
‘We are not,’ roared Mr. Pickwick, in a tone which, to any dispassionate listener, carried conviction with it. ‘Ain’t you, though — ain’t you?’ said the young man, appealing to Mr. Pickwick, and making his way through the crowd by the infallible process of elbowing the countenances27 of its component28 members.
That learned man in a few hurried words explained the real state of the case.
‘Come along, then,’ said he of the green coat, lugging29 Mr. Pickwick after him by main force, and talking the whole way. Here, No. 924, take your fare, and take yourself off — respectable gentleman — know him well — none of your nonsense — this way, sir — where’s your friends? — all a mistake, I see — never mind — accidents will happen — best regulated families — never say die — down upon your luck — Pull him UP— Put that in his pipe — like the flavour — damned rascals30.’ And with a lengthened31 string of similar broken sentences, delivered with extraordinary volubility, the stranger led the way to the traveller’s waiting-room, whither he was closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and his disciples32.
‘Here, waiter!’ shouted the stranger, ringing the bell with tremendous violence, ‘glasses round — brandy-and-water, hot and strong, and sweet, and plenty — eye damaged, Sir? Waiter! raw beef-steak for the gentleman’s eye — nothing like raw beef-steak for a bruise33, sir; cold lamp-post very good, but lamp-post inconvenient34 — damned odd standing35 in the open street half an hour, with your eye against a lamp-post — eh — very good — ha! ha!’ And the stranger, without stopping to take breath, swallowed at a draught36 full half a pint37 of the reeking38 brandy-and– water, and flung himself into a chair with as much ease as if nothing uncommon39 had occurred.
While his three companions were busily engaged in proffering40 their thanks to their new acquaintance, Mr. Pickwick had leisure to examine his costume and appearance.
He was about the middle height, but the thinness of his body, and the length of his legs, gave him the appearance of being much taller. The green coat had been a smart dress garment in the days of swallow-tails, but had evidently in those times adorned41 a much shorter man than the stranger, for the soiled and faded sleeves scarcely reached to his wrists. It was buttoned closely up to his chin, at the imminent42 hazard of splitting the back; and an old stock, without a vestige43 of shirt collar, ornamented44 his neck. His scanty46 black trousers displayed here and there those shiny patches which bespeak47 long service, and were strapped48 very tightly over a pair of patched and mended shoes, as if to conceal49 the dirty white stockings, which were nevertheless distinctly visible. His long, black hair escaped in negligent50 waves from beneath each side of his old pinched-up hat; and glimpses of his bare wrists might be observed between the tops of his gloves and the cuffs51 of his coat sleeves. His face was thin and haggard; but an indescribable air of jaunty52 impudence53 and perfect self– possession pervaded54 the whole man.
Such was the individual on whom Mr. Pickwick gazed through his spectacles (which he had fortunately recovered), and to whom he proceeded, when his friends had exhausted55 themselves, to return in chosen terms his warmest thanks for his recent assistance.
‘Never mind,’ said the stranger, cutting the address very short, ‘said enough — no more; smart chap that cabman — handled his fives well; but if I’d been your friend in the green jemmy — damn me — punch his head — ‘cod I would — pig’s whisper — pieman too — no gammon.’
This coherent speech was interrupted by the entrance of the Rochester coachman, to announce that ‘the Commodore’ was on the point of starting.
‘Commodore!’ said the stranger, starting up, ‘my coach — place booked — one outside — leave you to pay for the brandy-and-water — want change for a five — bad silver — Brummagem buttons — won’t do — no go — eh?’ and he shook his head most knowingly.
Now it so happened that Mr. Pickwick and his three companions had resolved to make Rochester their first halting-place too; and having intimated to their new-found acquaintance that they were journeying to the same city, they agreed to occupy the seat at the back of the coach, where they could all sit together.
‘Up with you,’ said the stranger, assisting Mr. Pickwick on to the roof with so much precipitation as to impair56 the gravity of that gentleman’s deportment very materially.
‘Any luggage, Sir?’ inquired the coachman. ‘Who — I? Brown paper parcel here, that’s all — other luggage gone by water — packing-cases, nailed up — big as houses — heavy, heavy, damned heavy,’ replied the stranger, as he forced into his pocket as much as he could of the brown paper parcel, which presented most suspicious indications of containing one shirt and a handkerchief.
‘Heads, heads — take care of your heads!’ cried the loquacious57 stranger, as they came out under the low archway, which in those days formed the entrance to the coach-yard. ‘Terrible place — dangerous work — other day — five children — mother — tall lady, eating sandwiches — forgot the arch — crash — knock — children look round — mother’s head off — sandwich in her hand — no mouth to put it in — head of a family off — shocking, shocking! Looking at Whitehall, sir? — fine place — little window — somebody else’s head off there, eh, sir? — he didn’t keep a sharp look-out enough either — eh, Sir, eh?’
‘I am ruminating,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘on the strange mutability of human affairs.’
‘Ah! I see — in at the palace door one day, out at the window the next. Philosopher, Sir?’ ‘An observer of human nature, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Ah, so am I. Most people are when they’ve little to do and less to get. Poet, Sir?’
‘My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a strong poetic59 turn,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘So have I,’ said the stranger. ‘Epic poem — ten thousand lines — revolution of July — composed it on the spot — Mars by day, Apollo by night — bang the field-piece, twang the lyre.’
‘You were present at that glorious scene, sir?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.
‘Present! think I was;1 fired a musket60 — fired with an idea — rushed into wine shop — wrote it down — back again — whiz, bang — another idea — wine shop again — pen and ink — back again — cut and slash61 — noble time, Sir. Sportsman, sir?‘abruptly turning to Mr. Winkle.
1 A remarkable62 instance of the prophetic force of Mr. Jingle’s imagination; this dialogue occurring in the year 1827, and the Revolution in 1830.
‘A little, Sir,’ replied that gentleman.
‘Fine pursuit, sir — fine pursuit. — Dogs, Sir?’
‘Not just now,’ said Mr. Winkle.
‘Ah! you should keep dogs — fine animals — sagacious creatures — dog of my own once — pointer — surprising instinct — out shooting one day — entering inclosure — whistled — dog stopped — whistled again — Ponto — no go; stock still — called him — Ponto, Ponto — wouldn’t move — dog transfixed — staring at a board — looked up, saw an inscription64 —“Gamekeeper has orders to shoot all dogs found in this inclosure”— wouldn’t pass it — wonderful dog — valuable dog that — very.’
‘Singular circumstance that,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Will you allow me to make a note of it?’
‘Certainly, Sir, certainly — hundred more anecdotes65 of the same animal. — Fine girl, Sir’ (to Mr. Tracy Tupman, who had been bestowing66 sundry67 anti–Pickwickian glances on a young lady by the roadside).
‘Very!’ said Mr. Tupman.
‘English girls not so fine as Spanish — noble creatures — jet hair — black eyes — lovely forms — sweet creatures — beautiful.’
‘You have been in Spain, sir?’ said Mr. Tracy Tupman.
‘Lived there — ages.’ ‘Many conquests, sir?’ inquired Mr. Tupman.
‘Conquests! Thousands. Don Bolaro Fizzgig — grandee68 — only daughter — Donna Christina — splendid creature — loved me to distraction69 — jealous father — high-souled daughter — handsome Englishman — Donna Christina in despair — prussic acid — stomach pump in my portmanteau — operation performed — old Bolaro in ecstasies70 — consent to our union — join hands and floods of tears — romantic story — very.’
‘Is the lady in England now, sir?’ inquired Mr. Tupman, on whom the description of her charms had produced a powerful impression.
‘Dead, sir — dead,’ said the stranger, applying to his right eye the brief remnant of a very old cambric handkerchief. ‘Never recovered the stomach pump — undermined constitution — fell a victim.’
‘And her father?’ inquired the poetic Snodgrass.
‘Remorse and misery71,’ replied the stranger. ‘Sudden disappearance72 — talk of the whole city — search made everywhere without success — public fountain in the great square suddenly ceased playing — weeks elapsed — still a stoppage — workmen employed to clean it — water drawn73 off — father-in-law discovered sticking head first in the main pipe, with a full confession74 in his right boot — took him out, and the fountain played away again, as well as ever.’
‘Will you allow me to note that little romance down, Sir?’ said Mr. Snodgrass, deeply affected75.
‘Certainly, Sir, certainly — fifty more if you like to hear ’em — strange life mine — rather curious history — not extraordinary, but singular.’
In this strain, with an occasional glass of ale, by way of parenthesis76, when the coach changed horses, did the stranger proceed, until they reached Rochester bridge, by which time the note-books, both of Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Snodgrass, were completely filled with selections from his adventures.
‘Magnificent ruin!’ said Mr. Augustus Snodgrass, with all the poetic fervour that distinguished77 him, when they came in sight of the fine old castle.
‘What a sight for an antiquarian!’ were the very words which fell from Mr. Pickwick’s mouth, as he applied78 his telescope to his eye.
‘Ah! fine place,’ said the stranger, ‘glorious pile — frowning walls — tottering79 arches — dark nooks — crumbling80 staircases — old cathedral too — earthy smell — pilgrims’ feet wore away the old steps — little Saxon doors — confessionals like money-takers’ boxes at theatres — queer customers those monks81 — popes, and lord treasurers82, and all sorts of old fellows, with great red faces, and broken noses, turning up every day — buff jerkins too — match-locks — sarcophagus — fine place — old legends too — strange stories: capital;’ and the stranger continued to soliloquise until they reached the Bull Inn, in the High Street, where the coach stopped.
‘Do you remain here, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Nathaniel Winkle.
‘Here — not I— but you’d better — good house — nice beds — Wright’s next house, dear — very dear — half-a-crown in the bill if you look at the waiter — charge you more if you dine at a friend’s than they would if you dined in the coffee-room — rum fellows — very.’
Mr. Winkle turned to Mr. Pickwick, and murmured a few words; a whisper passed from Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Snodgrass, from Mr. Snodgrass to Mr. Tupman, and nods of assent83 were exchanged. Mr. Pickwick addressed the stranger.
‘You rendered us a very important service this morning, sir,’ said he, ‘will you allow us to offer a slight mark of our gratitude84 by begging the favour of your company at dinner?’
‘Great pleasure — not presume to dictate85, but broiled86 fowl87 and mushrooms — capital thing! What time?’
‘Let me see,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, referring to his watch, ‘it is now nearly three. Shall we say five?’
‘Suit me excellently,’ said the stranger, ‘five precisely88 — till then — care of yourselves;’ and lifting the pinched-up hat a few inches from his head, and carelessly replacing it very much on one side, the stranger, with half the brown paper parcel sticking out of his pocket, walked briskly up the yard, and turned into the High Street.
‘Evidently a traveller in many countries, and a close observer of men and things,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘I should like to see his poem,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.
‘I should like to have seen that dog,’ said Mr. Winkle.
Mr. Tupman said nothing; but he thought of Donna Christina, the stomach pump, and the fountain; and his eyes filled with tears.
A private sitting-room89 having been engaged, bedrooms inspected, and dinner ordered, the party walked out to view the city and adjoining neighbourhood.
We do not find, from a careful perusal90 of Mr. Pickwick’s notes of the four towns, Stroud, Rochester, Chatham, and Brompton, that his impressions of their appearance differ in any material point from those of other travellers who have gone over the same ground. His general description is easily abridged91.
‘The principal productions of these towns,’ says Mr. Pickwick, ‘appear to be soldiers, sailors, Jews, chalk, shrimps92, officers, and dockyard men. The commodities chiefly exposed for sale in the public streets are marine93 stores, hard-bake, apples, flat-fish, and oysters94. The streets present a lively and animated95 appearance, occasioned chiefly by the conviviality96 of the military. It is truly delightful97 to a philanthropic mind to see these gallant98 men staggering along under the influence of an overflow99 both of animal and ardent100 spirits; more especially when we remember that the following them about, and jesting with them, affords a cheap and innocent amusement for the boy population. Nothing,’ adds Mr. Pickwick, ‘can exceed their good-humour. It was but the day before my arrival that one of them had been most grossly insulted in the house of a publican. The barmaid had positively101 refused to draw him any more liquor; in return for which he had (merely in playfulness) drawn his bayonet, and wounded the girl in the shoulder. And yet this fine fellow was the very first to go down to the house next morning and express his readiness to overlook the matter, and forget what had occurred!
‘The consumption of tobacco in these towns,’ continues Mr. Pickwick, ‘must be very great, and the smell which pervades102 the streets must be exceedingly delicious to those who are extremely fond of smoking. A superficial traveller might object to the dirt, which is their leading characteristic; but to those who view it as an indication of traffic and commercial prosperity, it is truly gratifying.’
Punctual to five o’clock came the stranger, and shortly afterwards the dinner. He had divested103 himself of his brown paper parcel, but had made no alteration104 in his attire, and was, if possible, more loquacious than ever.
‘What’s that?’ he inquired, as the waiter removed one of the covers.
‘Soles, Sir.’
‘Soles — ah! — capital fish — all come from London-stage-coach proprietors105 get up political dinners — carriage of soles — dozens of baskets — cunning fellows. Glass of wine, Sir.’
‘With pleasure,’ said Mr. Pickwick; and the stranger took wine, first with him, and then with Mr. Snodgrass, and then with Mr. Tupman, and then with Mr. Winkle, and then with the whole party together, almost as rapidly as he talked.
‘Devil of a mess on the staircase, waiter,’ said the stranger. ‘Forms going up — carpenters coming down — lamps, glasses, harps106. What’s going forward?’
‘Ball, Sir,’ said the waiter.
‘Assembly, eh?’
‘No, Sir, not assembly, Sir. Ball for the benefit of a charity, Sir.’
‘Many fine women in this town, do you know, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Tupman, with great interest.
‘Splendid — capital. Kent, sir — everybody knows Kent — apples, cherries, hops107, and women. Glass of wine, Sir!’
‘With great pleasure,’ replied Mr. Tupman. The stranger filled, and emptied.
‘I should very much like to go,’ said Mr. Tupman, resuming the subject of the ball, ‘very much.’
‘Tickets at the bar, Sir,’ interposed the waiter; ‘half-a-guinea each, Sir.’
Mr. Tupman again expressed an earnest wish to be present at the festivity; but meeting with no response in the darkened eye of Mr. Snodgrass, or the abstracted gaze of Mr. Pickwick, he applied himself with great interest to the port wine and dessert, which had just been placed on the table. The waiter withdrew, and the party were left to enjoy the cosy108 couple of hours succeeding dinner.
‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ said the stranger, ‘bottle stands — pass it round — way of the sun — through the button-hole — no heeltaps,’ and he emptied his glass, which he had filled about two minutes before, and poured out another, with the air of a man who was used to it.
The wine was passed, and a fresh supply ordered. The visitor talked, the Pickwickians listened. Mr. Tupman felt every moment more disposed for the ball. Mr. Pickwick’s countenance26 glowed with an expression of universal philanthropy, and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass fell fast asleep.
‘They’re beginning upstairs,’ said the stranger —‘hear the company — fiddles109 tuning110 — now the harp58 — there they go.’ The various sounds which found their way downstairs announced the commencement of the first quadrille.
‘How I should like to go,’ said Mr. Tupman again.
‘So should I,’ said the stranger —‘confounded luggage — heavy smacks111 — nothing to go in — odd, ain’t it?’
Now general benevolence112 was one of the leading features of the Pickwickian theory, and no one was more remarkable for the zealous113 manner in which he observed so noble a principle than Mr. Tracy Tupman. The number of instances recorded on the Transactions of the Society, in which that excellent man referred objects of charity to the houses of other members for left-off garments or pecuniary114 relief is almost incredible. ‘I should be very happy to lend you a change of apparel for the purpose,’ said Mr. Tracy Tupman, ‘but you are rather slim, and I am —’
‘Rather fat — grown-up Bacchus — cut the leaves — dismounted from the tub, and adopted kersey, eh? — not double distilled115, but double milled — ha! ha! pass the wine.’
Whether Mr. Tupman was somewhat indignant at the peremptory116 tone in which he was desired to pass the wine which the stranger passed so quickly away, or whether he felt very properly scandalised at an influential117 member of the Pickwick Club being ignominiously118 compared to a dismounted Bacchus, is a fact not yet completely ascertained119. He passed the wine, coughed twice, and looked at the stranger for several seconds with a stern intensity120; as that individual, however, appeared perfectly121 collected, and quite calm under his searching glance, he gradually relaxed, and reverted122 to the subject of the ball.
‘I was about to observe, Sir,’ he said, ‘that though my apparel would be too large, a suit of my friend Mr. Winkle’s would, perhaps, fit you better.’
The stranger took Mr. Winkle’s measure with his eye, and that feature glistened123 with satisfaction as he said, ‘Just the thing.’
Mr. Tupman looked round him. The wine, which had exerted its somniferous influence over Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle, had stolen upon the senses of Mr. Pickwick. That gentleman had gradually passed through the various stages which precede the lethargy produced by dinner, and its consequences. He had undergone the ordinary transitions from the height of conviviality to the depth of misery, and from the depth of misery to the height of conviviality. Like a gas-lamp in the street, with the wind in the pipe, he had exhibited for a moment an unnatural124 brilliancy, then sank so low as to be scarcely discernible; after a short interval125, he had burst out again, to enlighten for a moment; then flickered126 with an uncertain, staggering sort of light, and then gone out altogether. His head was sunk upon his bosom127, and perpetual snoring, with a partial choke occasionally, were the only audible indications of the great man’s presence.
The temptation to be present at the ball, and to form his first impressions of the beauty of the Kentish ladies, was strong upon Mr. Tupman. The temptation to take the stranger with him was equally great. He was wholly unacquainted with the place and its inhabitants, and the stranger seemed to possess as great a knowledge of both as if he had lived there from his infancy128. Mr. Winkle was asleep, and Mr. Tupman had had sufficient experience in such matters to know that the moment he awoke he would, in the ordinary course of nature, roll heavily to bed. He was undecided. ‘Fill your glass, and pass the wine,’ said the indefatigable129 visitor.
Mr. Tupman did as he was requested; and the additional stimulus130 of the last glass settled his determination.
‘Winkle’s bedroom is inside mine,’ said Mr. Tupman; ‘I couldn’t make him understand what I wanted, if I woke him now, but I know he has a dress-suit in a carpet bag; and supposing you wore it to the ball, and took it off when we returned, I could replace it without troubling him at all about the matter.’
‘Capital,’ said the stranger, ‘famous plan — damned odd situation — fourteen coats in the packing-cases, and obliged to wear another man’s — very good notion, that — very.’
‘We must purchase our tickets,’ said Mr. Tupman.
‘Not worth while splitting a guinea,’ said the stranger, ‘toss who shall pay for both — I call; you spin — first time — woman — woman — bewitching woman,’ and down came the sovereign with the dragon (called by courtesy a woman) uppermost.
Mr. Tupman rang the bell, purchased the tickets, and ordered chamber candlesticks. In another quarter of an hour the stranger was completely arrayed in a full suit of Mr. Nathaniel Winkle’s.
‘It’s a new coat,’ said Mr. Tupman, as the stranger surveyed himself with great complacency in a cheval glass; ‘the first that’s been made with our club button,’ and he called his companions’ attention to the large gilt131 button which displayed a bust132 of Mr. Pickwick in the centre, and the letters ‘P. C.’ on either side.
‘“P. C.”’ said the stranger —‘queer set out — old fellow’s likeness133, and “P. C.”— What does “P. C.” stand for — Peculiar134 Coat, eh?’
Mr. Tupman, with rising indignation and great importance, explained the mystic device.
‘Rather short in the waist, ain’t it?’ said the stranger, screwing himself round to catch a glimpse in the glass of the waist buttons, which were half-way up his back. ‘Like a general postman’s coat — queer coats those — made by contract — no measuring — mysterious dispensations of Providence136 — all the short men get long coats — all the long men short ones.’ Running on in this way, Mr. Tupman’s new companion adjusted his dress, or rather the dress of Mr. Winkle; and, accompanied by Mr. Tupman, ascended137 the staircase leading to the ballroom138.
‘What names, sir?’ said the man at the door. Mr. Tracy Tupman was stepping forward to announce his own titles, when the stranger prevented him.
‘No names at all;’ and then he whispered Mr. Tupman, ‘names won’t do — not known — very good names in their way, but not great ones — capital names for a small party, but won’t make an impression in public assemblies — incog. the thing — gentlemen from London — distinguished foreigners — anything.’ The door was thrown open, and Mr. Tracy Tupman and the stranger entered the ballroom.
It was a long room, with crimson-covered benches, and wax candles in glass chandeliers. The musicians were securely confined in an elevated den5, and quadrilles were being systematically139 got through by two or three sets of dancers. Two card-tables were made up in the adjoining card-room, and two pair of old ladies, and a corresponding number of stout140 gentlemen, were executing whist therein.
The finale concluded, the dancers promenaded141 the room, and Mr. Tupman and his companion stationed themselves in a corner to observe the company.
‘Charming women,’ said Mr. Tupman.
‘Wait a minute,’ said the stranger, ‘fun presently — nobs not come yet — queer place — dockyard people of upper rank don’t know dockyard people of lower rank — dockyard people of lower rank don’t know small gentry142 — small gentry don’t know tradespeople — commissioner143 don’t know anybody.’
‘Who’s that little boy with the light hair and pink eyes, in a fancy dress?‘inquired Mr. Tupman.
‘Hush, pray — pink eyes — fancy dress — little boy — nonsense — ensign 97th — Honourable144 Wilmot Snipe — great family — Snipes — very.’
‘Sir Thomas Clubber, Lady Clubber, and the Misses Clubber!’ shouted the man at the door in a stentorian145 voice. A great sensation was created throughout the room by the entrance of a tall gentleman in a blue coat and bright buttons, a large lady in blue satin, and two young ladies, on a similar scale, in fashionably-made dresses of the same hue146.
‘Commissioner — head of the yard — great man — remarkably147 great man,’ whispered the stranger in Mr. Tupman’s ear, as the charitable committee ushered148 Sir Thomas Clubber and family to the top of the room. The Honourable Wilmot Snipe, and other distinguished gentlemen crowded to render homage149 to the Misses Clubber; and Sir Thomas Clubber stood bolt upright, and looked majestically150 over his black kerchief at the assembled company.
‘Mr. Smithie, Mrs. Smithie, and the Misses Smithie,’ was the next announcement.
‘What’s Mr. Smithie?’ inquired Mr. Tracy Tupman.
‘Something in the yard,’ replied the stranger. Mr. Smithie bowed deferentially151 to Sir Thomas Clubber; and Sir Thomas Clubber acknowledged the salute152 with conscious condescension153. Lady Clubber took a telescopic view of Mrs. Smithie and family through her eye-glass and Mrs. Smithie stared in her turn at Mrs. Somebody-else, whose husband was not in the dockyard at all.
‘Colonel Bulder, Mrs. Colonel Bulder, and Miss Bulder,’ were the next arrivals.
‘Head of the garrison,’ said the stranger, in reply to Mr. Tupman’s inquiring look.
Miss Bulder was warmly welcomed by the Misses Clubber; the greeting between Mrs. Colonel Bulder and Lady Clubber was of the most affectionate description; Colonel Bulder and Sir Thomas Clubber exchanged snuff-boxes, and looked very much like a pair of Alexander Selkirks —‘Monarchs of all they surveyed.’
While the aristocracy of the place — the Bulders, and Clubbers, and Snipes — were thus preserving their dignity at the upper end of the room, the other classes of society were imitating their example in other parts of it. The less aristocratic officers of the 97th devoted154 themselves to the families of the less important functionaries155 from the dockyard. The solicitors’ wives, and the wine-merchant’s wife, headed another grade (the brewer’s wife visited the Bulders); and Mrs. Tomlinson, the post-office keeper, seemed by mutual156 consent to have been chosen the leader of the trade party.
One of the most popular personages, in his own circle, present, was a little fat man, with a ring of upright black hair round his head, and an extensive bald plain on the top of it — Doctor Slammer, surgeon to the 97th. The doctor took snuff with everybody, chatted with everybody, laughed, danced, made jokes, played whist, did everything, and was everywhere. To these pursuits, multifarious as they were, the little doctor added a more important one than any — he was indefatigable in paying the most unremitting and devoted attention to a little old widow, whose rich dress and profusion157 of ornament45 bespoke158 her a most desirable addition to a limited income.
Upon the doctor, and the widow, the eyes of both Mr. Tupman and his companion had been fixed63 for some time, when the stranger broke silence.
‘Lots of money — old girl — pompous160 doctor — not a bad idea — good fun,’ were the intelligible161 sentences which issued from his lips. Mr. Tupman looked inquisitively162 in his face. ‘I’ll dance with the widow,’ said the stranger.
‘Who is she?’ inquired Mr. Tupman.
‘Don’t know — never saw her in all my life — cut out the doctor — here goes.’ And the stranger forthwith crossed the room; and, leaning against a mantel-piece, commenced gazing with an air of respectful and melancholy163 admiration164 on the fat countenance of the little old lady. Mr. Tupman looked on, in mute astonishment. The stranger progressed rapidly; the little doctor danced with another lady; the widow dropped her fan; the stranger picked it up, and presented it — a smile — a bow — a curtsey — a few words of conversation. The stranger walked boldly up to, and returned with, the master of the ceremonies; a little introductory pantomime; and the stranger and Mrs. Budger took their places in a quadrille.
The surprise of Mr. Tupman at this summary proceeding165, great as it was, was immeasurably exceeded by the astonishment of the doctor. The stranger was young, and the widow was flattered. The doctor’s attentions were unheeded by the widow; and the doctor’s indignation was wholly lost on his imperturbable166 rival. Doctor Slammer was paralysed. He, Doctor Slammer, of the 97th, to be extinguished in a moment, by a man whom nobody had ever seen before, and whom nobody knew even now! Doctor Slammer — Doctor Slammer of the 97th rejected! Impossible! It could not be! Yes, it was; there they were. What! introducing his friend! Could he believe his eyes! He looked again, and was under the painful necessity of admitting the veracity167 of his optics; Mrs. Budger was dancing with Mr. Tracy Tupman; there was no mistaking the fact. There was the widow before him, bouncing bodily here and there, with unwonted vigour168; and Mr. Tracy Tupman hopping169 about, with a face expressive170 of the most intense solemnity, dancing (as a good many people do) as if a quadrille were not a thing to be laughed at, but a severe trial to the feelings, which it requires inflexible171 resolution to encounter.
Silently and patiently did the doctor bear all this, and all the handings of negus, and watching for glasses, and darting172 for biscuits, and coquetting, that ensued; but, a few seconds after the stranger had disappeared to lead Mrs. Budger to her carriage, he darted173 swiftly from the room with every particle of his hitherto-bottled-up indignation effervescing174, from all parts of his countenance, in a perspiration175 of passion.
The stranger was returning, and Mr. Tupman was beside him. He spoke159 in a low tone, and laughed. The little doctor thirsted for his life. He was exulting176. He had triumphed.
‘Sir!’ said the doctor, in an awful voice, producing a card, and retiring into an angle of the passage, ‘my name is Slammer, Doctor Slammer, sir — 97th Regiment178 — Chatham Barracks — my card, Sir, my card.’ He would have added more, but his indignation choked him.
‘Ah!’ replied the stranger coolly, ‘Slammer — much obliged — polite attention — not ill now, Slammer — but when I am — knock you up.’
‘You — you’re a shuffler179, sir,’ gasped the furious doctor, ‘a poltroon180 — a coward — a liar135 — a — a — will nothing induce you to give me your card, sir!’ ‘Oh! I see,’ said the stranger, half aside, ‘negus too strong here — liberal landlord — very foolish — very — lemonade much better — hot rooms — elderly gentlemen — suffer for it in the morning — cruel — cruel;’ and he moved on a step or two.
‘You are stopping in this house, Sir,’ said the indignant little man; ‘you are intoxicated181 now, Sir; you shall hear from me in the morning, sir. I shall find you out, sir; I shall find you out.’
‘Rather you found me out than found me at home,’ replied the unmoved stranger.
Doctor Slammer looked unutterable ferocity, as he fixed his hat on his head with an indignant knock; and the stranger and Mr. Tupman ascended to the bedroom of the latter to restore the borrowed plumage to the unconscious Winkle.
That gentleman was fast asleep; the restoration was soon made. The stranger was extremely jocose182; and Mr. Tracy Tupman, being quite bewildered with wine, negus, lights, and ladies, thought the whole affair was an exquisite183 joke. His new friend departed; and, after experiencing some slight difficulty in finding the orifice in his nightcap, originally intended for the reception of his head, and finally overturning his candlestick in his struggles to put it on, Mr. Tracy Tupman managed to get into bed by a series of complicated evolutions, and shortly afterwards sank into repose184.
Seven o’clock had hardly ceased striking on the following morning, when Mr. Pickwick’s comprehensive mind was aroused from the state of unconsciousness, in which slumber2 had plunged185 it, by a loud knocking at his chamber door. ‘Who’s there?’ said Mr. Pickwick, starting up in bed.
‘Boots, sir.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Please, sir, can you tell me which gentleman of your party wears a bright blue dress-coat, with a gilt button with “P. C.” on it?’
‘It’s been given out to brush,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, ‘and the man has forgotten whom it belongs to.’ ‘Mr. Winkle,‘he called out, ‘next room but two, on the right hand.’ ‘Thank’ee, sir,’ said the Boots, and away he went.
‘What’s the matter?’ cried Mr. Tupman, as a loud knocking at his door roused hint from his oblivious186 repose.
‘Can I speak to Mr. Winkle, sir?’ replied Boots from the outside.
‘Winkle — Winkle!’ shouted Mr. Tupman, calling into the inner room. ‘Hollo!’ replied a faint voice from within the bed-clothes.
‘You’re wanted — some one at the door;’ and, having exerted himself to articulate thus much, Mr. Tracy Tupman turned round and fell fast asleep again.
‘Wanted!’ said Mr. Winkle, hastily jumping out of bed, and putting on a few articles of clothing; ‘wanted! at this distance from town — who on earth can want me?’
‘Gentleman in the coffee-room, sir,’ replied the Boots, as Mr. Winkle opened the door and confronted him; ‘gentleman says he’ll not detain you a moment, Sir, but he can take no denial.’
‘Very odd!’ said Mr. Winkle; ‘I’ll be down directly.’
He hurriedly wrapped himself in a travelling-shawl and dressing-gown, and proceeded downstairs. An old woman and a couple of waiters were cleaning the coffee-room, and an officer in undress uniform was looking out of the window. He turned round as Mr. Winkle entered, and made a stiff inclination187 of the head. Having ordered the attendants to retire, and closed the door very carefully, he said, ‘Mr. Winkle, I presume?’
‘My name is Winkle, sir.’
‘You will not be surprised, sir, when I inform you that I have called here this morning on behalf of my friend, Doctor Slammer, of the 97th.’
‘Doctor Slammer!’ said Mr. Winkle.
‘Doctor Slammer. He begged me to express his opinion that your conduct of last evening was of a description which no gentleman could endure; and’ (he added) ‘which no one gentleman would pursue towards another.’
Mr. Winkle’s astonishment was too real, and too evident, to escape the observation of Doctor Slammer’s friend; he therefore proceeded —‘My friend, Doctor Slammer, requested me to add, that he was firmly persuaded you were intoxicated during a portion of the evening, and possibly unconscious of the extent of the insult you were guilty of. He commissioned me to say, that should this be pleaded as an excuse for your behaviour, he will consent to accept a written apology, to be penned by you, from my dictation.’
‘A written apology!’ repeated Mr. Winkle, in the most emphatic188 tone of amazement189 possible.
‘Of course you know the alternative,’ replied the visitor coolly.
‘Were you intrusted with this message to me by name?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, whose intellects were hopelessly confused by this extraordinary conversation.
‘I was not present myself,’ replied the visitor, ‘and in consequence of your firm refusal to give your card to Doctor Slammer, I was desired by that gentleman to identify the wearer of a very uncommon coat — a bright blue dress-coat, with a gilt button displaying a bust, and the letters “P. C.”’
Mr. Winkle actually staggered with astonishment as he heard his own costume thus minutely described. Doctor Slammer’s friend proceeded:—‘From the inquiries190 I made at the bar, just now, I was convinced that the owner of the coat in question arrived here, with three gentlemen, yesterday afternoon. I immediately sent up to the gentleman who was described as appearing the head of the party, and he at once referred me to you.’
If the principal tower of Rochester Castle had suddenly walked from its foundation, and stationed itself opposite the coffee-room window, Mr. Winkle’s surprise would have been as nothing compared with the profound astonishment with which he had heard this address. His first impression was that his coat had been stolen. ‘Will you allow me to detain you one moment?’ said he.
‘Certainly,’ replied the unwelcome visitor.
Mr. Winkle ran hastily upstairs, and with a trembling hand opened the bag. There was the coat in its usual place, but exhibiting, on a close inspection192, evident tokens of having been worn on the preceding night.
‘It must be so,’ said Mr. Winkle, letting the coat fall from his hands. ‘I took too much wine after dinner, and have a very vague recollection of walking about the streets, and smoking a cigar afterwards. The fact is, I was very drunk; — I must have changed my coat — gone somewhere — and insulted somebody — I have no doubt of it; and this message is the terrible consequence.’ Saying which, Mr. Winkle retraced193 his steps in the direction of the coffee-room, with the gloomy and dreadful resolve of accepting the challenge of the warlike Doctor Slammer, and abiding194 by the worst consequences that might ensue.
To this determination Mr. Winkle was urged by a variety of considerations, the first of which was his reputation with the club. He had always been looked up to as a high authority on all matters of amusement and dexterity195, whether offensive, defensive196, or inoffensive; and if, on this very first occasion of being put to the test, he shrunk back from the trial, beneath his leader’s eye, his name and standing were lost for ever. Besides, he remembered to have heard it frequently surmised197 by the uninitiated in such matters that by an understood arrangement between the seconds, the pistols were seldom loaded with ball; and, furthermore, he reflected that if he applied to Mr. Snodgrass to act as his second, and depicted198 the danger in glowing terms, that gentleman might possibly communicate the intelligence to Mr. Pickwick, who would certainly lose no time in transmitting it to the local authorities, and thus prevent the killing199 or maiming of his follower200.
Such were his thoughts when he returned to the coffee-room, and intimated his intention of accepting the doctor’s challenge.
‘Will you refer me to a friend, to arrange the time and place of meeting?’ said the officer.
‘Quite unnecessary,’ replied Mr. Winkle; ‘name them to me, and I can procure201 the attendance of a friend afterwards.’
‘Shall we say — sunset this evening?’ inquired the officer, in a careless tone.
‘Very good,’ replied Mr. Winkle, thinking in his heart it was very bad.
‘You know Fort Pitt?’
‘Yes; I saw it yesterday.’
‘If you will take the trouble to turn into the field which borders the trench202, take the foot-path to the left when you arrive at an angle of the fortification, and keep straight on, till you see me, I will precede you to a secluded203 place, where the affair can be conducted without fear of interruption.’
‘Fear of interruption!’ thought Mr. Winkle.
‘Nothing more to arrange, I think,’ said the officer.
‘I am not aware of anything more,’ replied Mr. Winkle. ‘Good-morning.’
‘Good-morning;’ and the officer whistled a lively air as he strode away.
That morning’s breakfast passed heavily off. Mr. Tupman was not in a condition to rise, after the unwonted dissipation of the previous night; Mr. Snodgrass appeared to labour under a poetical204 depression of spirits; and even Mr. Pickwick evinced an unusual attachment205 to silence and soda-water. Mr. Winkle eagerly watched his opportunity: it was not long wanting. Mr. Snodgrass proposed a visit to the castle, and as Mr. Winkle was the only other member of the party disposed to walk, they went out together. ‘Snodgrass,’ said Mr. Winkle, when they had turned out of the public street. ‘Snodgrass, my dear fellow, can I rely upon your secrecy206?’ As he said this, he most devoutly207 and earnestly hoped he could not.
‘You can,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass. ‘Hear me swear —’
‘No, no,’ interrupted Winkle, terrified at the idea of his companion’s unconsciously pledging himself not to give information; ‘don’t swear, don’t swear; it’s quite unnecessary.’
Mr. Snodgrass dropped the hand which he had, in the spirit of poesy, raised towards the clouds as he made the above appeal, and assumed an attitude of attention.
‘I want your assistance, my dear fellow, in an affair of honour,’ said Mr. Winkle.
‘You shall have it,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass, clasping his friend’s hand.
‘With a doctor — Doctor Slammer, of the 97th,’ said Mr. Winkle, wishing to make the matter appear as solemn as possible; ‘an affair with an officer, seconded by another officer, at sunset this evening, in a lonely field beyond Fort Pitt.’
‘I will attend you,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.
He was astonished, but by no means dismayed. It is extraordinary how cool any party but the principal can be in such cases. Mr. Winkle had forgotten this. He had judged of his friend’s feelings by his own.
‘The consequences may be dreadful,’ said Mr. Winkle.
‘I hope not,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.
‘The doctor, I believe, is a very good shot,’ said Mr. Winkle.
‘Most of these military men are,’ observed Mr. Snodgrass calmly; ‘but so are you, ain’t you?’ Mr. Winkle replied in the affirmative; and perceiving that he had not alarmed his companion sufficiently208, changed his ground.
‘Snodgrass,’ he said, in a voice tremulous with emotion, ‘if I fall, you will find in a packet which I shall place in your hands a note for my — for my father.’
This attack was a failure also. Mr. Snodgrass was affected, but he undertook the delivery of the note as readily as if he had been a twopenny postman.
‘If I fall,’ said Mr. Winkle, ‘or if the doctor falls, you, my dear friend, will be tried as an accessory before the fact. Shall I involve my friend in transportation — possibly for life!’ Mr. Snodgrass winced209 a little at this, but his heroism210 was invincible211. ‘In the cause of friendship,’ he fervently212 exclaimed, ‘I would brave all dangers.’
How Mr. Winkle cursed his companion’s devoted friendship internally, as they walked silently along, side by side, for some minutes, each immersed in his own meditations213! The morning was wearing away; he grew desperate.
‘Snodgrass,’ he said, stopping suddenly, ‘do not let me be balked214 in this matter — do not give information to the local authorities — do not obtain the assistance of several peace officers, to take either me or Doctor Slammer, of the 97th Regiment, at present quartered in Chatham Barracks, into custody215, and thus prevent this duel216! — I say, do not.’
Mr. Snodgrass seized his friend’s hand warmly, as he enthusiastically replied, ‘Not for worlds!’
A thrill passed over Mr. Winkle’s frame as the conviction that he had nothing to hope from his friend’s fears, and that he was destined217 to become an animated target, rushed forcibly upon him.
The state of the case having been formally explained to Mr. Snodgrass, and a case of satisfactory pistols, with the satisfactory accompaniments of powder, ball, and caps, having been hired from a manufacturer in Rochester, the two friends returned to their inn; Mr. Winkle to ruminate218 on the approaching struggle, and Mr. Snodgrass to arrange the weapons of war, and put them into proper order for immediate191 use.
it was a dull and heavy evening when they again sallied forth16 on their awkward errand. Mr. Winkle was muffled219 up in a huge cloak to escape observation, and Mr. Snodgrass bore under his the instruments of destruction.
‘Have you got everything?’ said Mr. Winkle, in an agitated220 tone.
‘Everything,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass; ‘plenty of ammunition221, in case the shots don’t take effect. There’s a quarter of a pound of powder in the case, and I have got two newspapers in my pocket for the loadings.’
These were instances of friendship for which any man might reasonably feel most grateful. The presumption222 is, that the gratitude of Mr. Winkle was too powerful for utterance223, as he said nothing, but continued to walk on — rather slowly.
‘We are in excellent time,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, as they climbed the fence of the first field;‘the sun is just going down.’ Mr. Winkle looked up at the declining orb224 and painfully thought of the probability of his ‘going down’ himself, before long.
‘There’s the officer,’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle, after a few minutes walking. ‘Where?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.
‘There — the gentleman in the blue cloak.’ Mr. Snodgrass looked in the direction indicated by the forefinger225 of his friend, and observed a figure, muffled up, as he had described. The officer evinced his consciousness of their presence by slightly beckoning226 with his hand; and the two friends followed him at a little distance, as he walked away.
The evening grew more dull every moment, and a melancholy wind sounded through the deserted227 fields, like a distant giant whistling for his house-dog. The sadness of the scene imparted a sombre tinge228 to the feelings of Mr. Winkle. He started as they passed the angle of the trench — it looked like a colossal229 grave.
The officer turned suddenly from the path, and after climbing a paling, and scaling a hedge, entered a secluded field. Two gentlemen were waiting in it; one was a little, fat man, with black hair; and the other — a portly personage in a braided surtout — was sitting with perfect equanimity230 on a camp-stool.
‘The other party, and a surgeon, I suppose,’ said Mr. Snodgrass; ‘take a drop of brandy.’ Mr. Winkle seized the wicker bottle which his friend proffered231, and took a lengthened pull at the exhilarating liquid.
‘My friend, Sir, Mr. Snodgrass,’ said Mr. Winkle, as the officer approached. Doctor Slammer’s friend bowed, and produced a case similar to that which Mr. Snodgrass carried.
‘We have nothing further to say, Sir, I think,’ he coldly remarked, as he opened the case; ‘an apology has been resolutely232 declined.’
‘Nothing, Sir,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, who began to feel rather uncomfortable himself.
‘Will you step forward?’ said the officer.
‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass. The ground was measured, and preliminaries arranged. ‘You will find these better than your own,’ said the opposite second, producing his pistols. ‘You saw me load them. Do you object to use them?’
‘Certainly not,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass. The offer relieved him from considerable embarrassment233, for his previous notions of loading a pistol were rather vague and undefined.
‘We may place our men, then, I think,’ observed the officer, with as much indifference234 as if the principals were chess-men, and the seconds players.
‘I think we may,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass; who would have assented235 to any proposition, because he knew nothing about the matter. The officer crossed to Doctor Slammer, and Mr. Snodgrass went up to Mr. Winkle.
‘It’s all ready,’ said he, offering the pistol. ‘Give me your cloak.’
‘You have got the packet, my dear fellow,’ said poor Winkle. ‘All right,’ said Mr. Snodgrass. ‘Be steady, and wing him.’
It occurred to Mr. Winkle that this advice was very like that which bystanders invariably give to the smallest boy in a street fight, namely, ‘Go in, and win’— an admirable thing to recommend, if you only know how to do it. He took off his cloak, however, in silence — it always took a long time to undo236 that cloak — and accepted the pistol. The seconds retired237, the gentleman on the camp-stool did the same, and the belligerents238 approached each other.
Mr. Winkle was always remarkable for extreme humanity. It is conjectured239 that his unwillingness240 to hurt a fellow-creature intentionally241 was the cause of his shutting his eyes when he arrived at the fatal spot; and that the circumstance of his eyes being closed, prevented his observing the very extraordinary and unaccountable demeanour of Doctor Slammer. That gentleman started, stared, retreated, rubbed his eyes, stared again, and, finally, shouted, ‘Stop, stop!’
‘What’s all this?’ said Doctor Slammer, as his friend and Mr. Snodgrass came running up; ‘that’s not the man.’
‘Not the man!’ said Doctor Slammer’s second.
‘Not the man!’ said Mr. Snodgrass.
‘Not the man!’ said the gentleman with the camp-stool in his hand.
‘Certainly not,’ replied the little doctor. ‘That’s not the person who insulted me last night.’
‘Very extraordinary!’ exclaimed the officer.
‘Very,’ said the gentleman with the camp-stool. ‘The only question is, whether the gentleman, being on the ground, must not be considered, as a matter of form, to be the individual who insulted our friend, Doctor Slammer, yesterday evening, whether he is really that individual or not;’ and having delivered this suggestion, with a very sage177 and mysterious air, the man with the camp-stool took a large pinch of snuff, and looked profoundly round, with the air of an authority in such matters.
Now Mr. Winkle had opened his eyes, and his ears too, when he heard his adversary242 call out for a cessation of hostilities243; and perceiving by what he had afterwards said that there was, beyond all question, some mistake in the matter, he at once foresaw the increase of reputation he should inevitably244 acquire by concealing245 the real motive246 of his coming out; he therefore stepped boldly forward, and said —
‘I am not the person. I know it.’
‘Then, that,’ said the man with the camp-stool, ‘is an affront247 to Doctor Slammer, and a sufficient reason for proceeding immediately.’
‘Pray be quiet, Payne,’ said the doctor’s second. ‘Why did you not communicate this fact to me this morning, Sir?’
‘To be sure — to be sure,’ said the man with the camp-stool indignantly.
‘I entreat248 you to be quiet, Payne,’ said the other. ‘May I repeat my question, Sir?’
‘Because, Sir,’ replied Mr. Winkle, who had had time to deliberate upon his answer, ‘because, Sir, you described an intoxicated and ungentlemanly person as wearing a coat which I have the honour, not only to wear but to have invented — the proposed uniform, Sir, of the Pickwick Club in London. The honour of that uniform I feel bound to maintain, and I therefore, without inquiry249, accepted the challenge which you offered me.’
‘My dear Sir,’ said the good-humoured little doctor advancing with extended hand, ‘I honour your gallantry. Permit me to say, Sir, that I highly admire your conduct, and extremely regret having caused you the inconvenience of 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 Lieutenant250 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 aggrieved251 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 affronted252 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 professed253 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 proceedings254. 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 Doctor Slammer of Mr. Winkle, as they walked on most amicably255 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 Doctor 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.
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1
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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canvass
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| v.招徕顾客，兜售；游说；详细检查，讨论 | |
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23
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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24
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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25
aggression
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| n.进攻，侵略，侵犯，侵害 | |
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26
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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27
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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28
component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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29
lugging
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| 超载运转能力 | |
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30
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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31
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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33
bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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34
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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35
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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36
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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37
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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38
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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39
uncommon
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|
| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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40
proffering
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的现在分词 ) | |
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41
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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42
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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43
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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44
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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46
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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47
bespeak
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| v.预定；预先请求 | |
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48
strapped
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|
| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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49
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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50
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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51
cuffs
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|
| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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52
jaunty
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|
| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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53
impudence
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|
| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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54
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
exhausted
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|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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56
impair
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| v.损害，损伤；削弱，减少 | |
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57
loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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58
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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59
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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60
musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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61
slash
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| vi.大幅度削减；vt.猛砍，尖锐抨击，大幅减少；n.猛砍，斜线，长切口，衣衩 | |
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62
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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63
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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64
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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65
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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66
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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67
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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68
grandee
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| n.贵族；大公 | |
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69
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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70
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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71
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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72
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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73
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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74
confession
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|
| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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75
affected
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|
| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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76
parenthesis
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|
| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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77
distinguished
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|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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78
applied
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|
| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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79
tottering
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|
| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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80
crumbling
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|
| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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81
monks
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|
| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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82
treasurers
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| （团体等的）司库，财务主管( treasurer的名词复数 ) | |
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83
assent
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|
| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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84
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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85
dictate
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|
| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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86
broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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87
fowl
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|
| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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88
precisely
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|
| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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89
sitting-room
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|
| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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90
perusal
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|
| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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91
abridged
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| 削减的，删节的 | |
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92
shrimps
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|
| n.虾，小虾( shrimp的名词复数 )；矮小的人 | |
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93
marine
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|
| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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94
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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95
animated
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|
| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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96
conviviality
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|
| n.欢宴，高兴，欢乐 | |
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97
delightful
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|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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98
gallant
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|
| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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99
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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100
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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101
positively
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|
| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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102
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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103
divested
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|
| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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104
alteration
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|
| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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105
proprietors
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|
| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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106
harps
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| abbr.harpsichord 拨弦古钢琴n.竖琴( harp的名词复数 ) | |
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107
hops
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| 跳上[下]( hop的第三人称单数 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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108
cosy
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|
| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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109
fiddles
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| n.小提琴( fiddle的名词复数 )；欺诈；（需要运用手指功夫的）细巧活动；当第二把手v.伪造( fiddle的第三人称单数 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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110
tuning
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| n.调谐，调整，调音v.调音( tune的现在分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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111
smacks
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| 掌掴（声）( smack的名词复数 )； 海洛因； （打的）一拳； 打巴掌 | |
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112
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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113
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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114
pecuniary
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|
| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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115
distilled
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|
| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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116
peremptory
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|
| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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117
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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118
ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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119
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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121
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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122
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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123
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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125
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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126
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
bosom
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|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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128
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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129
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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130
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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131
gilt
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|
| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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132
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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133
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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134
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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135
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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136
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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137
ascended
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|
| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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139
systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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141
promenaded
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|
| v.兜风( promenade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
gentry
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|
| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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143
commissioner
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|
| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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144
honourable
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|
| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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145
stentorian
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| adj.大声的，响亮的 | |
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146
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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147
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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148
ushered
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|
| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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150
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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151
deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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152
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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153
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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154
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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155
functionaries
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| n.公职人员，官员( functionary的名词复数 ) | |
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156
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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157
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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158
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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159
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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160
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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161
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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162
inquisitively
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| 过分好奇地； 好问地 | |
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163
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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164
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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165
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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166
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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167
veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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168
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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169
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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170
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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171
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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172
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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173
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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174
effervescing
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| v.冒气泡，起泡沫( effervesce的现在分词 ) | |
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175
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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176
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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177
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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178
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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179
shuffler
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| n.曳步而行者； 洗牌者； 轮到洗牌的人； 做事漫不经心者 | |
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180
poltroon
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| n.胆怯者；懦夫 | |
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181
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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182
jocose
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| adj.开玩笑的，滑稽的 | |
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183
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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184
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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185
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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186
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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187
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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188
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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189
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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190
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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191
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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192
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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193
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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194
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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195
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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196
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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197
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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198
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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199
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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200
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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201
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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202
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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203
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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204
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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205
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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206
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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207
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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208
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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209
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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210
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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211
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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212
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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213
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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214
balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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215
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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216
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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217
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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218
ruminate
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| v.反刍；沉思 | |
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219
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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220
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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221
ammunition
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| n.军火，弹药 | |
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222
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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223
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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224
orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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225
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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226
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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227
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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228
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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229
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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230
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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231
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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232
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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233
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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234
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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235
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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236
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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237
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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238
belligerents
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| n.交战的一方（指国家、集团或个人）( belligerent的名词复数 ) | |
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239
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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240
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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241
intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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242
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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243
hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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244
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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245
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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246
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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247
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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248
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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249
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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250
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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251
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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252
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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253
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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254
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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255
amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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