Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 230: what you’re looking at

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Pickwick Abroad. 181 But it was not Mr. Tupman who entered the room, although a person little less illustrious—it was Mr. Weller. ‘* Letter, Sir,’”’ said that gentleman, handing a note to his master, and slowly retreating towards the door, through which he did not, how- ever, think it worth while to evaporate. Mr. Pickwick immediately recognised the hand-writing of Mr. 'Tup- man, and as speedily made himself aware of the contents of the missive. He uttered not a syllable, but passed the note to his young friend, and sank thoughtfully back into his chair. “What!” exclaimed Mr. Winkle; ‘‘Tupman has actually deserted us —run away—bolted !”—and large tears ran down his cheeks. “Vell,” said Mr. Weller, after a moment’s consideration, ‘*‘ here’s the devil to pay, and no money to give him! If I vos the gov’ner, blest if I vouldn’t drive them wagaries out o’ Mr. Tupman’s head ; I'd rub him down vith a oaken towel, and give twenty-five drops 0’ shillalah-oil in his tea every mornin’ for a fortnit or so.” ahaa te he may come back in a day or two,” suggested Mr. Pick- wic ‘* At all events, we mus’n’t let our friends know that he has eloped,”’ said Mr. Winkle. ‘Scuttle and Walker would only laugh at us.” ‘* That ’ud be too civil by von half,” remarked Mr. Weller, “ vich vos the wery appropriate obserwation made on a certain oc-casion.”’ ‘‘ What was that, Sam?” enquired Mr. Pickwick, endeavouring to force a smile. ‘‘Vy, Sir,” responded Mr. Weller, ‘‘ vonce upon a time a poor vasher-voman vos a-valkin’ along Pentonwil vith a huge basket o’ linen on each arm, aud a bundle o’ the same on her back. Vell, Sir, she stops at a house—and a wery decent crib it where—and she sees a fen leman a- coming along ; so she asks him toknock at the door for her- e gen’leman, vich vos exceedin’ obligin’, immediately complied vith the poor voman’s rek-vest; but instead o’ comin’ it smal] vith a single knock, as becomed the poor vasher-voman’s con-dition, he gives a tat-tat-tat-tat—rat-tat-tat-tat—tat-tat-tat—tat—tat, increasing more wiolently vith every stroke. Vell indeed might the poor voman be dumb-foundered, and the passin’ chimbley-sveep exclaim, ‘ Go it, my covey—that’s too civil by half.’ ’’ “Very singular,” said Mr. Pickwick, rising from his chair. ‘‘Sam, t us some hot water—and let’s make haste and start to Mrs. eston’s abode.” The two gentlemen soon beautified themselves to their hearts’ con- tent, and at about half-past nine o’clock they proceeded to a hand- some house in the Rue Taitbout, a portion of which was occupied by Mrs. Weston ; and were speedily ushered into the presence of Mr. Scuttle and his niece. Mrs. Weston was at this period exactly what Madame Vestris was about the same time—viz, fat, fair, and forty ; her figure was more in the proportions of a Hebe than of a Sylph—her countenance was, however, pleasing—her eyes dark blue and languishing—her teeth peculiarly white—and her bust remarkably well formed. She received Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle with a sweet smile, and ex- pressed the pleasure she experienced in becoming acquainted with two such eminently distinguished gentlemen. COMICIOO (©) (c@