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

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      “Me!” exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass.

      “It’s only a subpœna in Bardell and Pickwick on behalf of the plaintiff,” replied Mr. Jackson, singling out one of the slips of paper, and producing a shilling from his waistcoat pocket. “It’ll come on, in the settens after Term; fourteenth of Febooary, we expect; we’ve marked it a special jury cause, and it’s only ten down the paper. That’s yours, Mr. Snodgrass.” As Jackson said this he presented the parchment before the eyes of Mr. Snodgrass, and slipped the paper and the shilling into his hand.

      Mr. Tupman had witnessed this process in silent astonishment, when Jackson, turning sharply upon him, said:

      “I think I ain’t mistaken when I say your name’s Tupman, am I?”

      Mr. Tupman looked at Mr. Pickwick; but, perceiving no encouragement in that gentleman’s widely opened eyes to deny his name, said:

      “Yes, my name is Tupman, sir.”

      “And that other gentleman’s Mr. Winkle, I think?” said Jackson.

      Mr. Winkle faltered out a reply in the affirmative; and both gentlemen were forthwith invested with a slip of paper, and a shilling each, by the dexterous Mr. Jackson.

      “Now,” said Jackson, “I’m afraid you’ll think me rather troublesome, but I want somebody else, if it ain’t inconvenient. I have Samuel Weller’s name here, Mr. Pickwick.”

      “Send my servant here, waiter,” said Mr. Pickwick. The waiter retired, considerably astonished, and Mr. Pickwick motioned Jackson to a seat.

      There was a painful pause, which was at length broken by the innocent defendant.

      “I suppose, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, his indignation rising while he spoke; “I suppose, sir, that it is the intention of your employers to seek to criminate me upon the testimony of my own friends?”

      Mr. Jackson struck his forefinger several times against the left side of his nose, to intimate that he was not there to disclose the secrets of the prison-house, and playfully rejoined:

      “Not knowin’, can’t say.”

      “For what other reason, sir,” pursued Mr. Pickwick, “are these subpœnas served upon them, if not for this?”

      “Very good plant, Mr. Pickwick,” replied Jackson, slowly shaking his head. “But it won’t do. No harm in trying, but there’s little to be got out of me.”

      Here Mr. Jackson smiled once more upon the company, and, applying his left thumb to the tip of his nose, worked a visionary coffee-mill with his right hand: thereby performing a very graceful piece of pantomime (then much in vogue, but now, unhappily, almost obsolete) which was familiarly denominated “taking a grinder.”

      “No, no, Mr. Pickwick,” said Jackson, in conclusion; “Perker’s people must guess what we’ve served these subpœnas for. If they can’t, they must wait till the action comes on, and then they’ll find out.”

      Mr. Pickwick bestowed a look of excessive disgust on his unwelcome visitor, and would probably have hurled some tremendous anathema at the heads of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, had not Sam’s entrance at the instant interrupted him.

      “Samuel Weller?” said Mr. Jackson, inquiringly.

      “Vun o’ the truest things as you’ve said for many a long year,” replied Sam, in a most composed manner.

      “Here’s a subpœna for you, Mr. Weller,” said Jackson.

      “What’s that in English?” inquired Sam.

      “Here’s the original,” said Jackson, declining the required explanation.

      “Which?” said Sam.

      “This,” replied Jackson, shaking the parchment.

      “Oh, that’s the ’rig’nal, is it?” said Sam. “Well, I’m wery glad I’ve seen the ’rig’nal, ’cos it’s a gratifyin’ sort o’ thing, and eases vun’s mind so much.”

      “And here’s the shilling,” said Jackson. “It’s from Dodson and Fogg’s.”

      “And it’s uncommon handsome o’ Dodson and Fogg, as knows so little of me, to come down vith a present,” said Sam. “I feel it as a wery high compliment, sir; it’s a wery hon’rable thing to them, as they knows how to reward merit werever they meets it. Besides wich, it’s affectin’ to one’s feelin’s.”

      As Mr. Weller said this, he inflicted a little friction on his right eyelid, with the sleeve of his coat, after the most approved manner of actors when they are in domestic pathetics.

      Mr. Jackson seemed rather puzzled by Sam’s proceedings; but, as he had served the subpœnas, and had nothing more to say, he made a feint of putting on the one glove which he usually carried in his hand for the sake of appearances; and returned to the office to report progress.

      Mr. Pickwick slept little that night; his memory had received a very disagreeable refresher on the subject of Mrs. Bardell’s action. He breakfasted betimes next morning, and, desiring Sam to accompany him, set forth towards Gray’s Inn Square.

      “Sam!” said Mr. Pickwick, looking round, when they got to the end of Cheapside.

      “Sir?” said Sam, stepping up to his master.

      “Which way?”

      “Up Newgate Street.”

      Mr. Pickwick did not turn round immediately, but looked vacantly in Sam’s face for a few seconds, and heaved a deep sigh.

      “What’s the matter, sir?” inquired Sam.

      “This action, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, “is expected to come on on the fourteenth of next month.”

      “Remarkable coincidence that ’ere, sir,” replied Sam.

      “Why remarkable, Sam?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.

      “Walentine’s day, sir,” responded Sam; “reg’lar good day for a breach o’ promise trial.”

      Mr. Weller’s smile awakened no gleam of mirth in his master’s countenance. Mr. Pickwick turned abruptly round, and led the way in silence.

      They had walked some distance: Mr. Pickwick trotting on before, plunged in profound meditation, and Sam following behind, with a countenance expressive of the most enviable and easy defiance of everything and everybody: when the latter, who was always especially anxious to impart to his master any exclusive information he possessed, quickened his pace until he was close at Mr. Pickwick’s heels; and, pointing up at a house they were passing, said:

      “Wery nice pork-shop that ’ere, sir.”

      “Yes, it seems so,” said Mr. Pickwick.

      “Celebrated sassage factory,” said Sam.

      “Is it?” said Mr. Pickwick.

      “Is it!” reiterated Sam, with some indignation: “I should rayther think it was. Why, sir, bless СКАЧАТЬ