Martin Chuzzlewit. Чарльз Диккенс

the organ, notwithstanding that I do not, if I may use the expression, grind myself. If that is Mr Pinch, I will venture to express a hope that I see him well, and that he is suffering no inconvenience from the easterly wind?’

      ‘Thank you,’ said Tom. ‘I am very well.’

      ‘That is a comfort,’ Mr Tigg rejoined. ‘Then,’ he added, shielding his lips with the palm of his hand, and applying them close to Mr Pinch’s ear, ‘I have come for the letter.’

      ‘For the letter,’ said Tom, aloud. ‘What letter?’

      ‘The letter,’ whispered Tigg in the same cautious manner as before, ‘which my friend Pecksniff addressed to Chevy Slyme, Esquire, and left with you.’

      ‘He didn’t leave any letter with me,’ said Tom.

      ‘Hush!’ cried the other. ‘It’s all the same thing, though not so delicately done by my friend Pecksniff as I could have wished. The money.’

      ‘The money!’ cried Tom quite scared.

      ‘Exactly so,’ said Mr Tigg. With which he rapped Tom twice or thrice upon the breast and nodded several times, as though he would say that he saw they understood each other; that it was unnecessary to mention the circumstance before a third person; and that he would take it as a particular favour if Tom would slip the amount into his hand, as quietly as possible.

      Mr Pinch, however, was so very much astounded by this (to him) inexplicable deportment, that he at once openly declared there must be some mistake, and that he had been entrusted with no commission whatever having any reference to Mr Tigg or to his friend, either. Mr Tigg received this declaration with a grave request that Mr Pinch would have the goodness to make it again; and on Tom’s repeating it in a still more emphatic and unmistakable manner, checked it off, sentence for sentence, by nodding his head solemnly at the end of each. When it had come to a close for the second time, Mr Tigg sat himself down in a chair and addressed the young men as follows:

      ‘Then I tell you what it is, gents both. There is at this present moment in this very place, a perfect constellation of talent and genius, who is involved, through what I cannot but designate as the culpable negligence of my friend Pecksniff, in a situation as tremendous, perhaps, as the social intercourse of the nineteenth century will readily admit of. There is actually at this instant, at the Blue Dragon in this village – an ale-house, observe; a common, paltry, low-minded, clodhopping, pipe-smoking ale-house – an individual, of whom it may be said, in the language of the Poet, that nobody but himself can in any way come up to him; who is detained there for his bill. Ha! ha! For his bill. I repeat it – for his bill. Now,’ said Mr Tigg, ‘we have heard of Fox’s Book of Martyrs, I believe, and we have heard of the Court of Requests, and the Star Chamber; but I fear the contradiction of no man alive or dead, when I assert that my friend Chevy Slyme being held in pawn for a bill, beats any amount of cockfighting with which I am acquainted.’

      Martin and Mr Pinch looked, first at each other, and afterwards at Mr Tigg, who with his arms folded on his breast surveyed them, half in despondency and half in bitterness.

      ‘Don’t mistake me, gents both,’ he said, stretching forth his right hand. ‘If it had been for anything but a bill, I could have borne it, and could still have looked upon mankind with some feeling of respect; but when such a man as my friend Slyme is detained for a score – a thing in itself essentially mean; a low performance on a slate, or possibly chalked upon the back of a door – I do feel that there is a screw of such magnitude loose somewhere, that the whole framework of society is shaken, and the very first principles of things can no longer be trusted. In short, gents both,’ said Mr Tigg with a passionate flourish of his hands and head, ‘when a man like Slyme is detained for such a thing as a bill, I reject the superstitions of ages, and believe nothing. I don’t even believe that I don’t believe, curse me if I do!’

      ‘I am very sorry, I am sure,’ said Tom after a pause, ‘but Mr Pecksniff said nothing to me about it, and I couldn’t act without his instructions. Wouldn’t it be better, sir, if you were to go to – to wherever you came from – yourself, and remit the money to your friend?’

      ‘How can that be done, when I am detained also?’ said Mr Tigg; ‘and when moreover, owing to the astounding, and I must add, guilty negligence of my friend Pecksniff, I have no money for coach-hire?’

      Tom thought of reminding the gentleman (who, no doubt, in his agitation had forgotten it) that there was a post-office in the land; and that possibly if he wrote to some friend or agent for a remittance it might not be lost upon the road; or at all events that the chance, however desperate, was worth trusting to. But, as his good-nature presently suggested to him certain reasons for abstaining from this hint, he paused again, and then asked:

      ‘Did you say, sir, that you were detained also?’

      ‘Come here,’ said Mr Tigg, rising. ‘You have no objection to my opening this window for a moment?’

      ‘Certainly not,’ said Tom.

      ‘Very good,’ said Mr Tigg, lifting the sash. ‘You see a fellow down there in a red neckcloth and no waistcoat?’

      ‘Of course I do,’ cried Tom. ‘That’s Mark Tapley.’

      ‘Mark Tapley is it?’ said the gentleman. ‘Then Mark Tapley had not only the great politeness to follow me to this house, but is waiting now, to see me home again. And for that attention, sir,’ added Mr Tigg, stroking his moustache, ‘I can tell you, that Mark Tapley had better in his infancy have been fed to suffocation by Mrs Tapley, than preserved to this time.’

      Mr Pinch was not so dismayed by this terrible threat, but that he had voice enough to call to Mark to come in, and upstairs; a summons which he so speedily obeyed, that almost as soon as Tom and Mr Tigg had drawn in their heads and closed the window again, he, the denounced, appeared before them.

      ‘Come here, Mark!’ said Mr Pinch. ‘Good gracious me! what’s the matter between Mrs Lupin and this gentleman?’

      ‘What gentleman, sir?’ said Mark. ‘I don’t see no gentleman here sir, excepting you and the new gentleman,’ to whom he made a rough kind of bow – ‘and there’s nothing wrong between Mrs Lupin and either of you, Mr Pinch, I am sure.’

      ‘Nonsense, Mark!’ cried Tom. ‘You see Mr – ’

      ‘Tigg,’ interposed that gentleman. ‘Wait a bit. I shall crush him soon. All in good time!’

      ‘Oh him!’ rejoined Mark, with an air of careless defiance. ‘Yes, I see him. I could see him a little better, if he’d shave himself, and get his hair cut.’

      Mr Tigg shook his head with a ferocious look, and smote himself once upon the breast.

      ‘It’s no use,’ said Mark. ‘If you knock ever so much in that quarter, you’ll get no answer. I know better. There’s nothing there but padding; and a greasy sort it is.’

      ‘Nay, Mark,’ urged Mr Pinch, interposing to prevent hostilities, ‘tell me what I ask you. You’re not out of temper, I hope?’

      ‘Out of temper, sir!’ cried Mark, with a grin; ‘why no, sir. There’s a little credit – not much – in being jolly, when such fellows as him is a-going about like roaring lions; if there is any breed of lions, at least, as is all roar and mane. What is there between him and Mrs Lupin, sir? Why, there’s a score between him and Mrs Lupin. And I think Mrs Lupin lets him and his friend off very easy in not charging ‘em double prices for being a disgrace to the Dragon. That’s my opinion. I wouldn’t have any such Peter the Wild Boy as him in my house, sir, not if I was paid race-week prices for it. He’s enough to turn the very beer in the casks sour with his looks; he is! So he would, if it had judgment enough.’

      ‘You’re not answering my question, you know, Mark,’ observed Mr Pinch.

      ‘Well, sir,’ said Mark, ‘I don’t know as there’s much to answer further than that. Him and his friend goes and stops at the Moon and Stars till they’ve run a bill there; and then comes and stops with us and does the same. The running of bills is common enough Mr Pinch; it an’t