The Complete Short Stories of Charles Dickens: 190+ Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). Чарльз Диккенс

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      ‘So exactly the air of the marquis,’ said the military gentleman.

      ‘Quite extraordinary!’ sighed the military gentleman’s lady.

      ‘You don’t know the marquis, sir?’ inquired the military gentleman.

      Mr. Cymon Tuggs stammered a negative.

      ‘If you did,’ continued Captain Walter Waters, ‘you would feel how much reason you have to be proud of the resemblance—a most elegant man, with a most prepossessing appearance.’

      ‘He is—he is indeed!’ exclaimed Belinda Waters energetically. As her eye caught that of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, she withdrew it from his features in bashful confusion.

      All this was highly gratifying to the feelings of the Tuggses; and when, in the course of farther conversation, it was discovered that Miss Charlotta Tuggs was the fac simile of a titled relative of Mrs. Belinda Waters, and that Mrs. Tuggs herself was the very picture of the Dowager Duchess of Dobbleton, their delight in the acquisition of so genteel and friendly an acquaintance, knew no bounds. Even the dignity of Captain Walter Waters relaxed, to that degree, that he suffered himself to be prevailed upon by Mr. Joseph Tuggs, to partake of cold pigeon-pie and sherry, on deck; and a most delightful conversation, aided by these agreeable stimulants, was prolonged, until they ran alongside Ramsgate Pier.

      ‘Good-bye, dear!’ said Mrs. Captain Waters to Miss Charlotta Tuggs, just before the bustle of landing commenced; ‘we shall see you on the sands in the morning; and, as we are sure to have found lodgings before then, I hope we shall be inseparables for many weeks to come.’

      ‘Oh! I hope so,’ said Miss Charlotta Tuggs, emphatically.

      ‘Tickets, ladies and gen’lm’n,’ said the man on the paddle-box.

      ‘Want a porter, sir?’ inquired a dozen men in smock-frocks.

      ‘Now, my dear!’ said Captain Waters.

      ‘Good-bye!’ said Mrs. Captain Waters—‘good-bye, Mr. Cymon!’ and with a pressure of the hand which threw the amiable young man’s nerves into a state of considerable derangement, Mrs. Captain Waters disappeared among the crowd. A pair of puce-coloured boots were seen ascending the steps, a white handkerchief fluttered, a black eye gleamed. The Waterses were gone, and Mr. Cymon Tuggs was alone in a heartless world.

      Silently and abstractedly, did that too sensitive youth follow his revered parents, and a train of smock-frocks and wheelbarrows, along the pier, until the bustle of the scene around, recalled him to himself. The sun was shining brightly; the sea, dancing to its own music, rolled merrily in; crowds of people promenaded to and fro; young ladies tittered; old ladies talked; nursemaids displayed their charms to the greatest possible advantage; and their little charges ran up and down, and to and fro, and in and out, under the feet, and between the legs, of the assembled concourse, in the most playful and exhilarating manner. There were old gentlemen, trying to make out objects through long telescopes; and young ones, making objects of themselves in open shirt-collars; ladies, carrying about portable chairs, and portable chairs carrying about invalids; parties, waiting on the pier for parties who had come by the steam-boat; and nothing was to be heard but talking, laughing, welcoming, and merriment.

      ‘Fly, sir?’ exclaimed a chorus of fourteen men and six boys, the moment Mr. Joseph Tuggs, at the head of his little party, set foot in the street.

      ‘Here’s the gen’lm’n at last!’ said one, touching his hat with mock politeness. ‘Werry glad to see you, sir,—been a-waitin’ for you these six weeks. Jump in, if you please, sir!’

      ‘Nice light fly and a fast trotter, sir,’ said another: ‘fourteen mile a hour, and surroundin’ objects rendered inwisible by ex-treme welocity!’

      ‘Large fly for your luggage, sir,’ cried a third. ‘Werry large fly here, sir—reg’lar bluebottle!’

      ‘Here’s your fly, sir!’ shouted another aspiring charioteer, mounting the box, and inducing an old grey horse to indulge in some imperfect reminiscences of a canter. ‘Look at him, sir!—temper of a lamb and haction of a steam-ingein!’

      Resisting even the temptation of securing the services of so valuable a quadruped as the last named, Mr. Joseph Tuggs beckoned to the proprietor of a dingy conveyance of a greenish hue, lined with faded striped calico; and, the luggage and the family having been deposited therein, the animal in the shafts, after describing circles in the road for a quarter of an hour, at last consented to depart in quest of lodgings.

      ‘How many beds have you got?’ screamed Mrs. Tuggs out of the fly, to the woman who opened the door of the first house which displayed a bill intimating that apartments were to be let within.

      ‘How many did you want, ma’am?’ was, of course, the reply.

      ‘Three.’

      ‘Will you step in, ma’am?’ Down got Mrs. Tuggs. The family were delighted. Splendid view of the sea from the front windows—charming! A short pause. Back came Mrs. Tuggs again.—One parlour and a mattress.

      ‘Why the devil didn’t they say so at first?’ inquired Mr. Joseph Tuggs, rather pettishly.

      ‘Don’t know,’ said Mrs. Tuggs.

      ‘Wretches!’ exclaimed the nervous Cymon. Another bill—another stoppage. Same question—same answer—similar result.

      ‘What do they mean by this?’ inquired Mr. Joseph Tuggs, thoroughly out of temper.

      ‘Don’t know,’ said the placid Mrs. Tuggs.

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