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Chapter 22

Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth toseek his Fortune. He encounters Mr VincentCrummles; and who he was, is herein mademanifest.

  The whole capital which Nicholas found himself entitled to,either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy,after paying his rent and settling with the broker fromwhom he had hired his poor furniture, did not exceed, by morethan a few halfpence, the sum of twenty shillings. And yet hehailed the morning on which he had resolved to quit London, witha light heart, and sprang from his bed with an elasticity of spiritwhich is happily the lot of young persons, or the world wouldnever be stocked with old ones.

  It was a cold, dry, foggy morning in early spring. A few meagreshadows flitted to and fro in the misty streets, and occasionallythere loomed through the dull vapour, the heavy outline of somehackney coach wending homewards, which, drawing slowlynearer, rolled jangling by, scattering the thin crust of frost from itswhitened roof, and soon was lost again in the cloud. At intervalswere heard the tread of slipshod feet, and the chilly cry of the poorsweep as he crept, shivering, to his early toil; the heavy footfall ofthe official watcher of the night, pacing slowly up and down andcursing the tardy hours that still intervened between him andsleep; the rambling of ponderous carts and waggons; the roll of thelighter vehicles which carried buyers and sellers to the different markets; the sound of ineffectual knocking at the doors of heavysleepers—all these noises fell upon the ear from time to time, butall seemed muffled by the fog, and to be rendered almost asindistinct to the ear as was every object to the sight. The sluggishdarkness thickened as the day came on; and those who had thecourage to rise and peep at the gloomy street from their curtainedwindows, crept back to bed again, and coiled themselves up tosleep.

  Before even these indications of approaching morning were rifein busy London, Nicholas had made his way alone to the city, andstood beneath the windows of his mother’s house. It was dull andbare to see, but it had light and life for him; for there was at leastone heart within its old walls to which insult or dishonour wouldbring the same blood rushing, that flowed in his own veins.

  He crossed the road, and raised his eyes to the window of theroom where he knew his sister slept. It was closed and dark. ‘Poorgirl,’ thought Nicholas, ‘she little thinks who lingers here!’ Helooked again, and felt, for the moment, almost vexed that Kate wasnot there to exchange one word at parting. ‘Good God!’ hethought, suddenly correcting himself, ‘what a boy I am!’

  ‘It is better as it is,’ said Nicholas, after he had lounged on, afew paces, and returned to the same spot. ‘When I left thembefore, and could have said goodbye a thousand times if I hadchosen, I spared them the pain of leave-taking, and why not now?’

  As he spoke, some fancied motion of the curtain almost persuadedhim, for the instant, that Kate was at the window, and by one ofthose strange contradictions of feeling which are common to us all,he shrunk involuntarily into a doorway, that she might not seehim. He smiled at his own weakness; said ‘God bless them!’ and walked away with a lighter step.

  Smike was anxiously expecting him when he reached his oldlodgings, and so was Newman, who had expended a day’s incomein a can of rum and milk to prepare them for the journey. Theyhad tied up the luggage, Smike shouldered it, and away they went,with Newman Noggs in company; for he had insisted on walkingas far as he could with them, overnight.

  ‘Which way?’ asked Newman, wistfully.

  ‘To Kingston first,’ replied Nicholas.

  ‘And where afterwards?’ asked Newman. ‘Why won’t you tellme?’

  ‘Because I scarcely know myself, good friend,’ rejoinedNicholas, laying his hand upon his shoulder; ‘and if I did, I haveneither plan nor prospect yet, and might shift my quarters ahundred times before you could possibly communicate with me.’

  ‘I am afraid you have some deep scheme in your head,’ saidNewman, doubtfully.

  ‘So deep,’ replied his young friend, ‘that even I can’t fathom it.

  Whatever I resolve upon, depend upon it I will write you soon.’

  ‘You won’t forget?’ said Newman.

  ‘I am not very likely to,’ rejoined Nicholas. ‘I have not so manyfriends that I shall grow confused among the number, and forgetmy best one.’

  Occupied in such discourse, they walked on for a couple ofhours, as they might have done for a couple of days if Nicholas hadnot sat himself down on a stone by the wayside, and resolutelydeclared his intention of not moving another step until NewmanNoggs turned back. Having pleaded ineffectually first for anotherhalf-mile, and afterwards for another quarter, Newman was fain to comply, and to shape his course towards Golden Square, afterinterchanging many hearty and affectionate farewells, and manytimes turning back to wave his hat to the two wayfarers when theyhad become mere specks in the distance.

  ‘Now listen to me, Smike,’ said Nicholas, as they trudged withstout hearts onwards. ‘We are bound for Portsmouth.’

  Smike nodded his head and smiled, but expressed no otheremotion; for whether they had been bound for Portsmouth or PortRoyal would have been alike to him, so they had been boundtogether.

  ‘I don’t know much of these matters,’ resumed Nicholas; ‘butPortsmouth is a seaport town, and if no other employment is to beobtained, I should think we might get on board some ship. I amyoung and active, and could be useful in many ways. So couldyou.’

  ‘I hope so,’ replied Smike. ‘When I was at that—you knowwhere I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘You needn’t name the place.’

  ‘Well, when I was there,’ resumed Smike; his eyes sparkling atthe prospect of displaying his abilities; ‘I could milk a cow, andgroom a horse, with anybody.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Nicholas, gravely. ‘I am afraid they don’t keep manyanimals of either kind on board ship, Smike, and even when theyhave horses, that they are not very particular about rubbing themdown; still you can learn to do something else, you know. Wherethere’s a will, there’s a way.’

  ‘And I am very willing,’ said Smike, brightening up again.

  ‘God knows you are,’ rejoined Nicholas; ‘and if you fail, it shallgo hard but I’ll do enough for us both.’

   ‘Do we go all the way today?’ asked Smike, after a short silence.

  ‘That would be too severe a trial, even for your willing legs,’

  said Nicholas, with a good-humoured smile. ‘No. Godalming issome thirty and odd miles from London—as I found from a map Iborrowed—and I purpose to rest there. We must push on againtomorrow, for we are not rich enough to loiter. Let me relieve youof that bundle! Come!’

  ‘No, no,’ rejoined Smike, falling back a few steps. ‘Don’t ask meto give it up to you.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Let me do something for you, at least,’ said Smike. ‘You willnever let me serve you as I ought. You will never know how Ithink, day and night, of ways to please you.’

  ‘You are a foolish fellow to say it, for I know it well, and see it,or I should be a blind and senseless beast,’ rejoined Nicholas. ‘Letme ask you a question while I think of it, and there is no one by,’

  he added, looking him steadily in the face. ‘Have you a goodmemory?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Smike, shaking his head sorrowfully. ‘Ithink I had once; but it’s all gone now—all gone.’

  ‘Why do you think you had once?’ asked Nicholas, turningquickly upon him as though the answer in some way helped outthe purport of his question.

  ‘Because I could remember, when I was a child,’ said Smike,‘but that is very, very long ago, or at least it seems so. I was alwaysconfused and giddy at that place you took me from; and couldnever remember, and sometimes couldn’t even understand, whatthey said to me. I—let me see—let me see!’

  ‘You are wandering now,’ said Nicholas, touching him on the arm.

  ‘No,’ replied his companion, with a vacant look ‘I was onlythinking how—’ He shivered involuntarily as he spoke.

  ‘Think no more of that place, for it is all over,’ retortedNicholas, fixing his eyes full upon that of his companion, whichwas fast settling into an unmeaning stupefied gaze, once habitualto him, and common even then. ‘What of the first day you went toYorkshire?’

  ‘Eh!’ cried the lad.

  ‘That was before you began to lose your recollection, you know,’

  said Nicholas quietly. ‘Was the weather hot or cold?’

  ‘Wet,’ replied the boy. ‘Very wet. I have always said, when it hasrained hard, that it was like the night I came: and they used tocrowd round and laugh to see me cry when the rain fell heavily. Itwas like a child, they said, and that made me think of it more. Iturned cold all over sometimes, for I could see myself as I wasthen, coming in at the very same door.’

  ‘As you were then,’ repeated Nicholas, with assumedcarelessness; ‘how was that?’

  ‘Such a little creature,’ said Smike, ‘that they might have hadpity and mercy upon me, only to remember it.’

  ‘You didn’t find your way there, alone!’ remarked Nicholas.

  ‘No,’ rejoined Smike, ‘oh no.’

  ‘Who was with you?’

  ‘A man—a dark, withered man. I have heard them say so, at theschool, and I remembered that before. I was glad to leave him, Iwas afraid of him; but they made me more afraid of them, andused me harder too.’

  ‘Look at me,’ said Nicholas, wishing to attract his full attention.

   ‘There; don’t turn away. Do you remember no woman, no kindwoman, who hung over you once, and kissed your lips, and calledyou her child?’

  ‘No,’ said the poor creature, shaking his head, ‘no, never.’

  ‘Nor any house but that house in Yorkshire?’

  ‘No,’ rejoined the youth, with a melancholy look; ‘a room—Iremember I slept in a room, a large lonesome room at the top of ahouse, where there was a trap-door in the ceiling. I have coveredmy head with the clothes often, not to see it, for it frightened me: ayoung child with no one near at night: and I used to wonder whatwas on the other side. There was a clock too, an old clock, in onecorner. I remember that. I have never forgotten that room; forwhen I have terrible dreams, it comes back, just as it was. I seethings and people in it that I had never seen then, but there is theroom just as it used to be; that never changes.’

  ‘Will you let me take the bundle now?’ asked Nicholas, abruptlychanging the theme.

  ‘No,’ said Smike, ‘no. Come, let us walk on.’

  He quickened his pace as he said this, apparently under theimpression that they had been standing still during the whole ofthe previous dialogue. Nicholas marked him closely, and everyword of this conversation remained upon his memory.

  It was, by this time, within an hour of noon, and although adense vapour still enveloped the city they had left, as if the verybreath of its busy people hung over their schemes of gain andprofit, and found greater attraction there than in the quiet regionabove, in the open country it was clear and fair. Occasionally, insome low spots they came upon patches of mist which the sun hadnot yet driven from their strongholds; but these were soon passed, and as they laboured up the hills beyond, it was pleasant to lookdown, and see how the sluggish mass rolled heavily off, before thecheering influence of day. A broad, fine, honest sun lighted up thegreen pastures and dimpled water with the semblance of summer,while it left the travellers all the invigorating freshness of thatearly time of year. The ground seemed elastic under their feet; thesheep-bells were music to their ears; and exhilarated by exercise,and stimulated by hope, they pushed onward with the strength oflions. The day wore on, and all these bright colours subsided, andassumed a quieter tint, like young hopes softened down by time,or youthful features by degrees resolving into the calm andserenity of age. But they were scarcely less beautiful in their slowdecline, than they had been in their prime; for nature gives toevery time and season some beauties of its own; and from morningto night, as from the cradle to the grave, is but a succession ofchanges so gentle and easy, that we can scarcely mark theirprogress.

  To Godalming they came at last, and here they bargained fortwo humble beds, and slept soundly. In the morning they wereastir: though not quite so early as the sun: and again afoot; if notwith all the freshness of yesterday, still, with enough of hope andspirit to bear them cheerily on.

  It was a harder day’s journey than yesterday’s, for there werelong and weary hills to climb; and in journeys, as in life, it is agreat deal easier to go down hill than up. However, they kept on,with unabated perseverance, and the hill has not yet lifted its faceto heaven that perseverance will not gain the summit of at last.

  They walked upon the rim of the Devil’s Punch Bowl; andSmike listened with greedy interest as Nicholas read the inscription upon the stone which, reared upon that wild spot, tellsof a murder committed there by night. The grass on which theystood, had once been dyed with gore; and the blood of themurdered man had run down, drop by drop, into the hollow whichgives the place its name. ‘The Devil’s Bowl,’ thought Nicholas, ashe looked into the void, ‘never held fitter liquor than that!’

  Onward they kept, with steady purpose, and entered at lengthupon a wide and spacious tract of downs, with every variety oflittle hill and plain to change their verdant surface. Here, thereshot up, almost perpendicularly, into the sky, a height so steep, asto be hardly accessible to any but the sheep and goats that fedupon its sides, and there, stood a mound of green, sloping andtapering off so delicately, and merging so gently into the levelground, that you could scarce define its limits. Hills swelling aboveeach other; and undulations shapely and uncouth, smooth andrugged, graceful and grotesque, thrown negligently side by side,bounded the view in each direction; while frequently, withunexpected noise, there uprose from the ground a flight of crows,who, cawing and wheeling round the nearest hills, as if uncertainof their course, suddenly poised themselves upon the wing andskimmed down the long vista of some opening valley, with thespeed of light itself.

  By degrees, the prospect receded more and more on eitherhand, and as they had been shut out from rich and extensivescenery, so they emerged once again upon the open country. Theknowledge that they were drawing near their place of destination,gave them fresh courage to proceed; but the way had beendifficult, and they had loitered on the road, and Smike was tired.

  Thus, twilight had already closed in, when they turned off the path to the door of a roadside inn, yet twelve miles short of Portsmouth.

  ‘Twelve miles,’ said Nicholas, leaning with both hands on hisstick, and looking doubtfully at Smike.

  ‘Twelve long miles,’ repeated the landlord.

  ‘Is it a good road?’ inquired Nicholas.

  ‘Very bad,’ said the landlord. As of course, being a landlord, hewould say.

  ‘I want to get on,’ observed Nicholas. hesitating. ‘I scarcelyknow what to do.’

  ‘Don’t let me influence you,’ rejoined the landlord. ‘I wouldn’tgo on if it was me.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ asked Nicholas, with the same uncertainty.

  ‘Not if I knew when I was well off,’ said the landlord. Andhaving said it he pulled up his apron, put his hands into hispockets, and, taking a step or two outside the door, looked downthe dark road with an assumption of great indifference.

  A glance at the toil-worn face of Smike determined Nicholas, sowithout any further consideration he made up his mind to staywhere he was.

  The landlord led them into the kitchen, and as there was a goodfire he remarked that it was very cold. If there had happened to bea bad one he would have observed that it was very warm.

  ‘What can you give us for supper?’ was Nicholas’s naturalquestion.

  ‘Why—what would you like?’ was the landlord’s no less naturalanswer.

  Nicholas suggested cold meat, but there was no cold meat—poached eggs, but there were no eggs—mutton chops, but therewasn’t a mutton chop within three miles, though there had been more last week than they knew what to do with, and would be anextraordinary supply the day after tomorrow.

  ‘Then,’ said Nicholas, ‘I must leave it entirely to you, as I wouldhave done, at first, if you had allowed me.’

  ‘Why, then I’ll tell you what,’ rejoined the landlord. ‘There’s agentleman in the parlour that’s ordered a hot beef-steak puddingand potatoes, at nine. There’s more of it than he can manage, and Ihave very little doubt that if I ask leave, you can sup with him. I’lldo that, in a minute.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Nicholas, detaining him. ‘I would rather not. I—atleast—pshaw! why cannot I speak out? Here; you see that I amtravelling in a very humble manner, and have made my way hitheron foot. It is more than probable, I think, that the gentleman maynot relish my company; and although I am the dusty figure yousee, I am too proud to thrust myself into his.’

  ‘Lord love you,’ said the landlord, ‘it’s only Mr Crummles; heisn’t particular.’

  ‘Is he not?’ asked Nicholas, on whose mind, to tell the truth, theprospect of the savoury pudding was making some impression.

  ‘Not he,’ replied the landlord. ‘He’ll like your way of talking, Iknow. But we’ll soon see all about that. Just wait a minute.’

  The landlord hurried into the parlour, without staying forfurther permission, nor did Nicholas strive to prevent him: wiselyconsidering that supper, under the circumstances, was too seriousa matter to be trifled with. It was not long before the hostreturned, in a condition of much excitement.

  ‘All right,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I knew he would. You’ll seesomething rather worth seeing, in there. Ecod, how they are a-going of it!’

   There was no time to inquire to what this exclamation, whichwas delivered in a very rapturous tone, referred; for he hadalready thrown open the door of the room; into which Nicholas,followed by Smike with the bundle on his shoulder (he carried itabout with him as vigilantly as if it had been a sack of gold),straightway repaired.

  Nicholas was prepared for something odd, but not forsomething quite so odd as the sight he encountered. At the upperend of the room, were a couple of boys, one of them very tall andthe other very short, both dressed as sailors—or at least astheatrical sailors, with belts, buckles, pigtails, and pistolscomplete—fighting what is called in play-bills a terrific combat,with two of those short broad-swords with basket hilts which arecommonly used at our minor theatres. The short boy had gained agreat advantage over the tall boy, who was reduced to mortalstrait, and both were overlooked by a large heavy man, perchedagainst the corner of a table, who emphatically adjured them tostrike a little more fire out of the swords, and they couldn’t fail tobring the house down, on the very first night.

  ‘Mr Vincent Crummles,’ said the landlord with an air of greatdeference. ‘This is the young gentleman.’

  Mr Vincent Crummles received Nicholas with an inclination ofthe head, something between the courtesy of a Roman emperorand the nod of a pot companion; and bade the landlord shut thedoor and begone.

  ‘There’s a picture,’ said Mr Crummles, motioning Nicholas notto advance and spoil it. ‘The little ’un has him; if the big ’undoesn’t knock under, in three seconds, he’s a dead man. Do thatagain, boys.’

   The two combatants went to work afresh, and chopped awayuntil the swords emitted a shower of sparks: to the greatsatisfaction of Mr Crummles, who appeared to consider this a verygreat point indeed. The engagement commenced with about twohundred chops administered by the short sailor and the tall sailoralternately, without producing any particular result, until theshort sailor was chopped down on one knee; but this was nothingto him, for he worked himself about on the one knee with theassistance of his left hand, and fought most desperately until thetall sailor chopped his sword out of his grasp. Now, the inferencewas, that the short sailor, reduced to this extremity, would give inat once and cry quarter, but, instead of that, he all of a suddendrew a large pistol from his belt and presented it at the face of thetall sailor, who was so overcome at this (not expecting it) that helet the short sailor pick up his sword and begin again. Then, thechopping recommenced, and a variety of fancy chops wereadministered on both sides; such as chops dealt with the left hand,and under the leg, and over the right shoulder, and over the left;and when the short sailor made a vigorous cut at the tall sailor’slegs, which would have shaved them clean off if it had taken effect,the tall sailor jumped over the short sailor’s sword, wherefore tobalance the matter, and make it all fair, the tall sailor administeredthe same cut, and the short sailor jumped over HIS sword. Afterthis, there was a good deal of dodging about, and hitching up ofthe inexpressibles in the absence of braces, and then the shortsailor (who was the moral character evidently, for he always hadthe best of it) made a violent demonstration and closed with thetall sailor, who, after a few unavailing struggles, went down, andexpired in great torture as the short sailor put his foot upon his breast, and bored a hole in him through and through.

  ‘That’ll be a double encore if you take care, boys,’ said MrCrummles. ‘You had better get your wind now and change yourclothes.’

  Having addressed these words to the combatants, he salutedNicholas, who then observed that the face of Mr Crummles wasquite proportionate in size to his body; that he had a very fullunder-lip, a hoarse voice, as though he were in the habit ofshouting very much, and very short black hair, shaved off nearlyto the crown of his head—to admit (as he afterwards learnt) of hismore easily wearing character wigs of any shape or pattern.

  ‘What did you think of that, sir?’ inquired Mr Crummles.

  ‘Very good, indeed—capital,’ answered Nicholas.

  ‘You won’t see such boys as those very often, I think,’ said MrCrummles.

  Nicholas assented—observing that if they were a little bettermatch—‘Match!’ cried Mr Crummles.

  ‘I mean if they were a little more of a size,’ said Nicholas,explaining himself.

  ‘Size!’ repeated Mr Crummles; ‘why, it’s the essence of thecombat that there should be a foot or two between them. How areyou to get up the sympathies of the audience in a legitimatemanner, if there isn’t a little man contending against a big one?—unless there’s at least five to one, and we haven’t hands enough forthat business in our company.’

  ‘I see,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I beg your pardon. That didn’t occur tome, I confess.’

  ‘It’s the main point,’ said Mr Crummles. ‘I open at Portsmouth the day after tomorrow. If you’re going there, look into the theatre,and see how that’ll tell.’

  Nicholas promised to do so, if he could, and drawing a chairnear the fire, fell into conversation with the manager at once. Hewas very talkative and communicative, stimulated perhaps, notonly by his natural disposition, but by the spirits and water hesipped very plentifully, or the snuff he took in large quantitiesfrom a piece of whitey-brown paper in his waistcoat pocket. Helaid open his affairs without the smallest reserve, and descanted atsome length upon the merits of his company, and theacquirements of his family; of both of which, the two broad-swordboys formed an honourable portion. There was to be a gathering,it seemed, of the different ladies and gentlemen at Portsmouth onthe morrow, whither the father and sons were proceeding (not forthe regular season, but in the course of a wandering speculation),after fulfilling an engagement at Guildford with the greatestapplause.

  ‘You are going that way?’ asked the manager.

  ‘Ye-yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Do you know the town at all?’ inquired the manager, whoseemed to consider himself entitled to the same degree ofconfidence as he had himself exhibited.

  ‘No,’ replied Nicholas.

  ‘Never there?’

  ‘Never.’

  Mr Vincent Crummles gave a short dry cough, as much as tosay, ‘If you won’t be communicative, you won’t;’ and took so manypinches of snuff from the piece of paper, one after another, thatNicholas quite wondered where it all went to.

   While he was thus engaged, Mr Crummles looked, from time totime, with great interest at Smike, with whom he had appearedconsiderably struck from the first. He had now fallen asleep, andwas nodding in his chair.

  ‘Excuse my saying so,’ said the manager, leaning over toNicholas, and sinking his voice, ‘but what a capital countenanceyour friend has got!’

  ‘Poor fellow!’ said Nicholas, with a half-smile, ‘I wish it were alittle more plump, and less haggard.’

  ‘Plump!’ exclaimed the manager, quite horrified, ‘you’d spoil itfor ever.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Think so, sir! Why, as he is now,’ said the manager, striking hisknee emphatically; ‘without a pad upon his body, and hardly atouch of paint upon his face, he’d make such an actor for thestarved business as was never seen in this country. Only let him betolerably well up in the Apothecary in Romeo and Juliet, with theslightest possible dab of red on the tip of his nose, and he’d becertain of three rounds the moment he put his head out of thepracticable door in the front grooves O.P.’

  ‘You view him with a professional eye,’ said Nicholas, laughing.

  ‘And well I may,’ rejoined the manager. ‘I never saw a youngfellow so regularly cut out for that line, since I’ve been in theprofession. And I played the heavy children when I was eighteenmonths old.’

  The appearance of the beef-steak pudding, which came insimultaneously with the junior Vincent Crummleses, turned theconversation to other matters, and indeed, for a time, stopped italtogether. These two young gentlemen wielded their knives and forks with scarcely less address than their broad-swords, and asthe whole party were quite as sharp set as either class of weapons,there was no time for talking until the supper had been disposedof.

  The Master Crummleses had no sooner swallowed the lastprocurable morsel of food, than they evinced, by various half-suppressed yawns and stretchings of their limbs, an obviousinclination to retire for the night, which Smike had betrayed stillmore strongly: he having, in the course of the meal, fallen asleepseveral times while in the very act of eating. Nicholas thereforeproposed that they should break up at once, but the managerwould by no means hear of it; vowing that he had promisedhimself the pleasure of inviting his new acquaintance to share abowl of punch, and that if he declined, he should deem it veryunhandsome behaviour.

  ‘Let them go,’ said Mr Vincent Crummles, ‘and we’ll have itsnugly and cosily together by the fire.’

  Nicholas was not much disposed to sleep—being in truth tooanxious—so, after a little demur, he accepted the offer, and havingexchanged a shake of the hand with the young Crummleses, andthe manager having on his part bestowed a most affectionatebenediction on Smike, he sat himself down opposite to thatgentleman by the fireside to assist in emptying the bowl, whichsoon afterwards appeared, steaming in a manner which was quiteexhilarating to behold, and sending forth a most grateful andinviting fragrance.

  But, despite the punch and the manager, who told a variety ofstories, and smoked tobacco from a pipe, and inhaled it in theshape of snuff, with a most astonishing power, Nicholas was absent and dispirited. His thoughts were in his old home, andwhen they reverted to his present condition, the uncertainty of themorrow cast a gloom upon him, which his utmost efforts wereunable to dispel. His attention wandered; although he heard themanager’s voice, he was deaf to what he said; and when MrVincent Crummles concluded the history of some long adventurewith a loud laugh, and an inquiry what Nicholas would have doneunder the same circumstances, he was obliged to make the bestapology in his power, and to confess his entire ignorance of all hehad been talking about.

  ‘Why, so I saw,’ observed Mr Crummles. ‘You’re uneasy in yourmind. What’s the matter?’

  Nicholas could not refrain from smiling at the abruptness of thequestion; but, thinking it scarcely worth while to parry it, ownedthat he was under some apprehensions lest he might not succeedin the object which had brought him to that part of the country.

  ‘And what’s that?’ asked the manager.

  ‘Getting something to do which will keep me and my poorfellow-traveller in the common necessaries of life,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘That’s the truth. You guessed it long ago, I dare say, so I may aswell have the credit of telling it you with a good grace.’

  ‘What’s to be got to do at Portsmouth more than anywhereelse?’ asked Mr Vincent Crummles, melting the sealing-wax on thestem of his pipe in the candle, and rolling it out afresh with hislittle finger.

  ‘There are many vessels leaving the port, I suppose,’ repliedNicholas. ‘I shall try for a berth in some ship or other. There ismeat and drink there at all events.’

  ‘Salt meat and new rum; pease-pudding and chaff-biscuits,’ said the manager, taking a whiff at his pipe to keep it alight, andreturning to his work of embellishment.

  ‘One may do worse than that,’ said Nicholas. ‘I can rough it, Ibelieve, as well as most young men of my age and previous habits.’

  ‘You need be able to,’ said the manager, ‘if you go on boardship; but you won’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because there’s not a skipper or mate that would think youworth your salt, when he could get a practised hand,’ replied themanager; ‘and they as plentiful there, as the oysters in the streets.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Nicholas, alarmed by thisprediction, and the confident tone in which it had been uttered.

  ‘Men are not born able seamen. They must be reared, I suppose?’

  Mr Vincent Crummles nodded his head. ‘They must; but not atyour age, or from young gentlemen like you.’

  There was a pause. The countenance of Nicholas fell, and hegazed ruefully at the fire.

  ‘Does no other profession occur to you, which a young man ofyour figure and address could take up easily, and see the world toadvantage in?’ asked the manager.

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas, shaking his head.

  ‘Why, then, I’ll tell you one,’ said Mr Crummles, throwing hispipe into the fire, and raising his voice. ‘The stage.’

  ‘The stage!’ cried Nicholas, in a voice almost as loud.

  ‘The theatrical profession,’ said Mr Vincent Crummles. ‘I am inthe theatrical profession myself, my wife is in the theatricalprofession, my children are in the theatrical profession. I had adog that lived and died in it from a puppy; and my chaise-ponygoes on, in Timour the Tartar. I’ll bring you out, and your friend too. Say the word. I want a novelty.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about it,’ rejoined Nicholas, whosebreath had been almost taken away by this sudden proposal. ‘Inever acted a part in my life, except at school.’

  ‘There’s genteel comedy in your walk and manner, juveniletragedy in your eye, and touch-and-go farce in your laugh,’ said MrVincent Crummles. ‘You’ll do as well as if you had thought ofnothing else but the lamps, from your birth downwards.’

  Nicholas thought of the small amount of small change thatwould remain in his pocket after paying the tavern bill; and hehesitated.

  ‘You can be useful to us in a hundred ways,’ said Mr Crummles.

  ‘Think what capital bills a man of your education could write forthe shop-windows.’

  ‘Well, I think I could manage that department,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘To be sure you could,’ replied Mr Crummles. ‘“For furtherparticulars see small hand-bills”—we might have half a volume inevery one of ’em. Pieces too; why, you could write us a piece tobring out the whole strength of the company, whenever wewanted one.’

  ‘I am not quite so confident about that,’ replied Nicholas. ‘But Idare say I could scribble something now and then, that would suityou.’

  ‘We’ll have a new show-piece out directly,’ said the manager.

  ‘Let me see—peculiar resources of this establishment—new andsplendid scenery—you must manage to introduce a real pump andtwo washing-tubs.’

  ‘Into the piece?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Yes,’ replied the manager. ‘I bought ’em cheap, at a sale the other day, and they’ll come in admirably. That’s the London plan.

  They look up some dresses, and properties, and have a piecewritten to fit ’em. Most of the theatres keep an author on purpose.’

  ‘Indeed!’ cried Nicholas.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said the manager; ‘a common thing. It’ll look very wellin the bills in separate lines—Real pump!—Splendid tubs!—Greatattraction! You don’t happen to be anything of an artist, do you?’

  ‘That is not one of my accomplishments,’ rejoined Nicholas.

  ‘Ah! Then it can’t be helped,’ said the manager. ‘If you hadbeen, we might have had a large woodcut of the last scene for theposters, showing the whole depth of the stage, with the pump andtubs in the middle; but, however, if you’re not, it can’t be helped.’

  ‘What should I get for all this?’ inquired Nicholas, after a fewmoments’ reflection. ‘Could I live by it?’

  ‘Live by it!’ said the manager. ‘Like a prince! With your ownsalary, and your friend’s, and your writings, you’d make—ah!

  you’d make a pound a week!’

  ‘You don’t say so!’

  ‘I do indeed, and if we had a run of good houses, nearly doublethe money.’

  Nicholas shrugged his shoulders; but sheer destitution wasbefore him; and if he could summon fortitude to undergo theextremes of want and hardship, for what had he rescued hishelpless charge if it were only to bear as hard a fate as that fromwhich he had wrested him? It was easy to think of seventy miles asnothing, when he was in the same town with the man who hadtreated him so ill and roused his bitterest thoughts; but now, itseemed far enough. What if he went abroad, and his mother orKate were to die the while?

   Without more deliberation, he hastily declared that it was abargain, and gave Mr Vincent Crummles his hand upon it.



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