LITMIR.BIZ

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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 cosy 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 countenance glowed with an expression of universal philanthropy, and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass fell fast asleep.

      “They’re beginning up-stairs,” said the stranger – “hear the company – fiddles tuning – now the harp – there they go.” The various sounds which found their way down-stairs 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 smacks – nothing to go in – odd, an’t it?”

      Now general benevolence was one of the leading features of the Pickwickian theory, and no one was more remarkable for the zealous 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 pecuniary 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 distilled, but double milled – ha! ha! pass the wine.”

      Whether Mr. Tupman was somewhat indignant at the peremptory 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 influential member of the Pickwick Club being ignominiously compared to a dismounted Bacchus, is a fact not yet completely ascertained. He passed the wine, coughed twice, and looked at the stranger for several seconds with a stern intensity; as that individual, however, appeared perfectly collected, and quite calm under his searching glance, he gradually relaxed, and reverted 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 glistened 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 unnatural brilliancy: then sunk so low as to be scarcely discernible: after a short interval he had burst out again, to enlighten for a moment, then flickered with an uncertain, staggering sort of light, and then gone out altogether. His head was sunk upon his bosom, 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 infancy. 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 indefatigable visitor.

      Mr. Tupman did as he was requested, and the additional stimulus 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 companion’s attention to the large gilt button which displayed a bust 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 likeness, and ‘P. C.’ – What does ‘P. C.’ stand for – Peculiar Coat, eh?”

      Mr. Tupman, with rising indignation and great importance, explained the mystic device.

      “Rather short in the waist, an’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 Providence – 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, ascended the staircase leading to the ball-room.

      “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 ball-room.

      It was a long room, with crimson-covered benches, and wax candles in glass chandeliers. The musicians were securely confined in an elevated den, and quadrilles were being systematically 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 stout gentlemen, were executing whist therein.

      The finale concluded, the dancers promenaded 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 – Dock-yard people of upper rank don’t know Dock-yard people of lower rank – Dock-yard people of lower rank don’t know small gentry – small gentry don’t know tradespeople – Commissioner don’t know anybody.”

      “Who’s that little boy with the light hair and pink eyes, in a fancy

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