The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. Volume 1 of 2. Чарльз Диккенс

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СКАЧАТЬ 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,” gasped Mr. Pickwick.

      “Informers!” shouted the crowd.

      “Come on,” cried the cabman, who had been sparring without cessation the whole time.

      The mob had hitherto been passive spectators of the scene, but as the intelligence of the Pickwickians being informers was spread among them, they began to canvass with considerable vivacity the propriety of enforcing the heated pastry-vendor’s proposition; and there is no saying what acts of personal aggression 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 countenances of its component 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, lugging 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 rascals.” And with a lengthened string of similar broken sentences, delivered with extraordinary volubility, the stranger led the way to the travellers’ waiting-room, whither he was closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and his disciples.

      “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 bruise, sir; cold lamp-post very good, but lamp-post inconvenient – damned odd standing 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 draught full half-a-pint of the reeking brandy and water, and flung himself into a chair with as much ease as if nothing uncommon had occurred.

      While his three companions were busily engaged in proffering 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 adorned 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 imminent hazard of splitting the back; and an old stock, without a vestige of shirt collar, ornamented his neck. His scanty black trousers displayed here and there those shiny patches which bespeak long service, and were strapped very tightly over a pair of patched and mended shoes, as if to conceal the dirty white stockings, which were nevertheless distinctly visible. His long black hair escaped in negligent 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 cuffs of his coat sleeves. His face was thin and haggard; but an indescribable air of jaunty impudence and perfect self-possession pervaded 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 exhausted 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 impair 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 loquacious 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 poetic turn,” said Mr. Pickwick.

      “So have I,” said the stranger. “Epic СКАЧАТЬ