Our Mutual Friend. Чарльз Диккенс

a bow, compounded of lay deference, and a slight touch of the shady preliminary meditation at church; to the doctor, a confidential bow, as to a gentleman whose acquaintance with his inside he begged respectfully to acknowledge; before the Quality he delighted to abase himself; and for Uncle Parker, who was in the army (at least, so he had settled it), he put his open hand to the side of his hat, in a military manner which that angry-eyed buttoned-up inflammatory-faced old gentleman appeared but imperfectly to appreciate.

      The only article in which Silas dealt, that was not hard, was gingerbread. On a certain day, some wretched infant having purchased the damp gingerbread-horse (fearfully out of condition), and the adhesive bird-cage, which had been exposed for the day’s sale, he had taken a tin box from under his stool to produce a relay of those dreadful specimens, and was going to look in at the lid, when he said to himself, pausing: ‘Oh! Here you are again!’

      The words referred to a broad, round-shouldered, one-sided old fellow in mourning, coming comically ambling towards the corner, dressed in a pea over-coat, and carrying a large stick. He wore thick shoes, and thick leather gaiters, and thick gloves like a hedger’s. Both as to his dress and to himself, he was of an overlapping rhinoceros build, with folds in his cheeks, and his forehead, and his eyelids, and his lips, and his ears; but with bright, eager, childishly-inquiring, grey eyes, under his ragged eyebrows, and broad-brimmed hat. A very odd-looking old fellow altogether.

      ‘Here you are again,’ repeated Mr Wegg, musing. ‘And what are you now? Are you in the Funns, or where are you? Have you lately come to settle in this neighbourhood, or do you own to another neighbourhood? Are you in independent circumstances, or is it wasting the motions of a bow on you? Come! I’ll speculate! I’ll invest a bow in you.’

      Which Mr Wegg, having replaced his tin box, accordingly did, as he rose to bait his gingerbread-trap for some other devoted infant. The salute was acknowledged with:

      ‘Morning, sir! Morning! Morning!’

      (‘Calls me Sir!’ said Mr Wegg, to himself; ‘he won’t answer. A bow gone!’)

      ‘Morning, morning, morning!’

      ‘Appears to be rather a ‘arty old cock, too,’ said Mr Wegg, as before; ‘Good morning to you, sir.’

      ‘Do you remember me, then?’ asked his new acquaintance, stopping in his amble, one-sided, before the stall, and speaking in a pounding way, though with great good-humour.

      ‘I have noticed you go past our house, sir, several times in the course of the last week or so.’

      ‘Our house,’ repeated the other. ‘Meaning – ?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Mr Wegg, nodding, as the other pointed the clumsy forefinger of his right glove at the corner house.

      ‘Oh! Now, what,’ pursued the old fellow, in an inquisitive manner, carrying his knotted stick in his left arm as if it were a baby, ‘what do they allow you now?’

      ‘It’s job work that I do for our house,’ returned Silas, drily, and with reticence; ‘it’s not yet brought to an exact allowance.’

      ‘Oh! It’s not yet brought to an exact allowance? No! It’s not yet brought to an exact allowance. Oh! – Morning, morning, morning!’

      ‘Appears to be rather a cracked old cock,’ thought Silas, qualifying his former good opinion, as the other ambled off. But, in a moment he was back again with the question:

      ‘How did you get your wooden leg?’

      Mr Wegg replied, (tartly to this personal inquiry), ‘In an accident.’

      ‘Do you like it?’

      ‘Well! I haven’t got to keep it warm,’ Mr Wegg made answer, in a sort of desperation occasioned by the singularity of the question.

      ‘He hasn’t,’ repeated the other to his knotted stick, as he gave it a hug; ‘he hasn’t got – ha! – ha! – to keep it warm! Did you ever hear of the name of Boffin?’

      ‘No,’ said Mr Wegg, who was growing restive under this examination. ‘I never did hear of the name of Boffin.’

      ‘Do you like it?’

      ‘Why, no,’ retorted Mr Wegg, again approaching desperation; ‘I can’t say I do.’

      ‘Why don’t you like it?’

      ‘I don’t know why I don’t,’ retorted Mr Wegg, approaching frenzy, ‘but I don’t at all.’

      ‘Now, I’ll tell you something that’ll make you sorry for that,’ said the stranger, smiling. ‘My name’s Boffin.’

      ‘I can’t help it!’ returned Mr Wegg. Implying in his manner the offensive addition, ‘and if I could, I wouldn’t.’

      ‘But there’s another chance for you,’ said Mr Boffin, smiling still, ‘Do you like the name of Nicodemus? Think it over. Nick, or Noddy.’

      ‘It is not, sir,’ Mr Wegg rejoined, as he sat down on his stool, with an air of gentle resignation, combined with melancholy candour; ‘it is not a name as I could wish any one that I had a respect for, to call me by; but there may be persons that would not view it with the same objections. – I don’t know why,’ Mr Wegg added, anticipating another question.

      ‘Noddy Boffin,’ said that gentleman. ‘Noddy. That’s my name. Noddy – or Nick – Boffin. What’s your name?’

      ‘Silas Wegg. – I don’t,’ said Mr Wegg, bestirring himself to take the same precaution as before, ‘I don’t know why Silas, and I don’t know why Wegg.’

      ‘Now, Wegg,’ said Mr Boffin, hugging his stick closer, ‘I want to make a sort of offer to you. Do you remember when you first see me?’

      The wooden Wegg looked at him with a meditative eye, and also with a softened air as descrying possibility of profit. ‘Let me think. I ain’t quite sure, and yet I generally take a powerful sight of notice, too. Was it on a Monday morning, when the butcher-boy had been to our house for orders, and bought a ballad of me, which, being unacquainted with the tune, I run it over to him?’

      ‘Right, Wegg, right! But he bought more than one.’

      ‘Yes, to be sure, sir; he bought several; and wishing to lay out his money to the best, he took my opinion to guide his choice, and we went over the collection together. To be sure we did. Here was him as it might be, and here was myself as it might be, and there was you, Mr Boffin, as you identically are, with your self-same stick under your very same arm, and your very same back towards us. To – be – sure!’ added Mr Wegg, looking a little round Mr Boffin, to take him in the rear, and identify this last extraordinary coincidence, ‘your wery self-same back!’

      ‘What do you think I was doing, Wegg?’

      ‘I should judge, sir, that you might be glancing your eye down the street.’

      ‘No, Wegg. I was a listening.’

      ‘Was you, indeed?’ said Mr Wegg, dubiously.

      ‘Not in a dishonourable way, Wegg, because you was singing to the butcher; and you wouldn’t sing secrets to a butcher in the street, you know.’

      ‘It never happened that I did so yet, to the best of my remembrance,’ said Mr Wegg, cautiously. ‘But I might do it. A man can’t say what he might wish to do some day or another.’ (This, not to release any little advantage he might derive from Mr Boffin’s avowal.)

      ‘Well,’ repeated Boffin, ‘I was a listening to you and to him. And what do you – you haven’t got another stool, have you? I’m rather thick in my breath.’

      ‘I haven’t got another, but you’re welcome to this,’ said Wegg, resigning it. ‘It’s a treat to me to stand.’

      ‘Lard!’ exclaimed Mr Boffin, in a tone of great enjoyment, as he settled himself down, still nursing his stick like a baby, ‘it’s a pleasant place, this! And then to be shut in on each side, with these ballads, like so many book-leaf blinkers! Why, its delightful!’

      ‘If