Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 162: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Pockwick Abroad. wa | d , Mr,” ejaculated Mr. Weller, by way of illustrating his mas- ter’s observation. “* I therefore shall not desert him,” continued Mr. Pickwick. “ But you had better go down stairs, now—Sam—and order breakfast,” added that observer of the human race, with unwonted delibera- tion: ‘I shall follow mmediately—” a proceeding, which, in the opinion of a malicious eommentator, might originate an idea that Mr. Pickwick was very desirous of putting a stop to a conversation in which his valet had the better side of the argument. Shortly after breakfast, the little party was joined by Mr. Tims, who had ed the whole of the two preceding days with his particu- lar friend Mr, Adolphus Crashem, in the very agreeable and quiet cham- ber occupied by that gentleman, next to a stack of chimneys on the top story of the New Prison. Mr. Tims gladly accepted Mr. Pickwick’s invitation to accompany him and his companions to that select mena- gerie of specimens of the human species, and declared that the call would be the more agreeable, as Mr, Crashem had succeeded in getting a bill discounted the day before. ‘* A bill!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick; ‘‘ and for what amount ?"’ ‘* Eighty pounds, I believe,” returned Mr. Tims, with a sly laugh. ‘‘ But, come along—and you shall see the exchange our friend has made—he giving a scrap of paper with some writing on it, and the money-broker, who, by the bye, is as excellent and worthy a Jew as ever wrote himself down ‘ Moses,’ supplying him with one-third in cash, and the remainder in a variety of useful goods and effects.”’ The curiosity of the Pickwickians was sensibly awakened by these mysterious hints; and all haste was made to reach the prison. Ac- cordingly in three quarters of an hour, or thereabouts, Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Boozie, Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Tims, stood at Mr. Adolphus Crashem’s door, on the panels of which the first named gentleman knocked somewhat loudly. ‘* Come in, you blackguards, you!” cried a loud voice which was immediately recognised as a portion of Mr. Crashem’s worldly posses- sions, in spite of the thickness and hesitation with which the words were articulated. Mr. Pickwick, thus adjured, threw the door wide open, and advanced a few paces into the room, followed by his com- panions in the rear. But there he stopped short, as if suddenly petri- fied, and thus forcibly rivetted to the spot—for most singular was the scene upon which he had suddenly burst. And this was it. On the table was a pleasing variety of bottles of all shapes and colours; some half full, others entirely empty, and tastefully ranged around an immense hand-bason in which there still remained a portion of a certain liquid that essentially resembled rum-punch. These arrangements were backed by cigars, and the ashes of cigars in pro- fusion—a lighted candle, with a gigantic wick—and all the e¢ ceteras that indicate the enactment of a thorough debauch. In one corner o1 the room was a tremendous pile of household goods, amongst which the curious eye of Mr. Pickwick detected—upon a rough calculation —about three dozen mops, a dozen coal-scuttles, six warming-pans, six or eight dozen toasting-forks, an entire army of boot-jacks, and numberless other articles usually appropriated in small quantities to domestic uses. GOMicDoOo (a) (c@