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Chapter 52 Involving a serious Change in the Weller Family, and th_ntimely Downfall of Mr. Stiggins

  • Considering it a matter of delicacy to abstain from introducing either Bo_awyer or Ben Allen to the young couple, until they were fully prepared t_xpect them, and wishing to spare Arabella’s feelings as much as possible, Mr.
  • Pickwick proposed that he and Sam should alight in the neighbourhood of th_eorge and Vulture, and that the two young men should for the present take u_heir quarters elsewhere. To this they very readily agreed, and th_roposition was accordingly acted upon; Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Bob Sawye_etaking themselves to a sequestered pot–shop on the remotest confines of th_orough, behind the bar door of which their names had in other days very ofte_ppeared at the head of long and complex calculations worked in white chalk.
  • ‘Dear me, Mr. Weller,’ said the pretty housemaid, meeting Sam at the door.
  • ‘Dear me I vish it vos, my dear,’ replied Sam, dropping behind, to let hi_aster get out of hearing. ‘Wot a sweet–lookin’ creetur you are, Mary!’
  • ‘Lot, Mr. Weller, what nonsense you do talk!’ said Mary. ‘Oh! don’t, Mr.
  • Weller.”
  • ‘Don’t what, my dear?’ said Sam.
  • ‘Why, that,’ replied the pretty housemaid. ‘Lor, do get along with you.’ Thu_dmonishing him, the pretty housemaid pushed Sam against the wall, declarin_hat he had tumbled her cap, and put her hair quite out of curl.
  • ‘And prevented what I was going to say, besides,’ added Mary. ‘There’s _etter been waiting here for you four days; you hadn’t gone away, half a_our, when it came; and more than that, it’s got “immediate,” on the outside.’
  • ‘Vere is it, my love?’ inquired Sam.
  • ‘I took care of it, for you, or I dare say it would have been lost long befor_his,’ replied Mary. ‘There, take it; it’s more than you deserve.’
  • With these words, after many pretty little coquettish doubts and fears, an_ishes that she might not have lost it, Mary produced the letter from behin_he nicest little muslin tucker possible, and handed it to Sam, who thereupo_issed it with much gallantry and devotion.
  • ‘My goodness me!’ said Mary, adjusting the tucker, and feignin_nconsciousness, ‘you seem to have grown very fond of it all at once.’
  • To this Mr. Weller only replied by a wink, the intense meaning of which n_escription could convey the faintest idea of; and, sitting himself dow_eside Mary on a window–seat, opened the letter and glanced at the contents.
  • ‘Hollo!’ exclaimed Sam, ‘wot’s all this?’
  • ‘Nothing the matter, I hope?’ said Mary, peeping over his shoulder.
  • ‘Bless them eyes o’ yourn!’ said Sam, looking up.
  • ‘Never mind my eyes; you had much better read your letter,’ said the prett_ousemaid; and as she said so, she made the eyes twinkle with such slyness an_eauty that they were perfectly irresistible.
  • Sam refreshed himself with a kiss, and read as follows:—
  • ‘Markis Gran
  • ‘By Dorken
  • ‘Wensdy.
  • ‘My Dear Sammle,
  • ‘I am werry sorry to have the pleasure of being a Bear of ill news your Mothe_n law cort cold consekens of imprudently settin too long on the damp grass i_he rain a hearing of a shepherd who warnt able to leave off till late a_ight owen to his having vound his–self up vith brandy and vater and not bein_ble to stop his–self till he got a little sober which took a many hours to d_he doctor says that if she’d svallo’d varm brandy and vater artervards inste_f afore she mightn’t have been no vus her veels wos immedetly greased an_verythink done to set her agoin as could be inwented your father had hopes a_he vould have vorked round as usual but just as she wos a turnen the corne_y boy she took the wrong road and vent down hill vith a welocity you neve_ee and notvithstandin that the drag wos put on directly by the medikel man i_ornt of no use at all for she paid the last pike at twenty minutes afore si_’clock yesterday evenin havin done the journey wery much under the regla_ime vich praps was partly owen to her haven taken in wery little luggage b_he vay your father says that if you vill come and see me Sammy he vill tak_t as a wery great favor for I am wery lonely Samivel n. b. he vill have i_pelt that vay vich I say ant right and as there is sich a many things t_ettle he is sure your guvner wont object of course he vill not Sammy for _nows him better so he sends his dooty in which I join and am Samive_nfernally yours
  • ‘Tony Veller.’
  • ‘Wot a incomprehensible letter,’ said Sam; ‘who’s to know wot it means, vit_ll this he–ing and I–ing! It ain’t my father’s writin’, ‘cept this her_ignater in print letters; that’s his.’
  • ‘Perhaps he got somebody to write it for him, and signed it himsel_fterwards,’ said the pretty housemaid.
  • ‘Stop a minit,’ replied Sam, running over the letter again, and pausing her_nd there, to reflect, as he did so. ‘You’ve hit it. The gen’l’m’n as wrote i_os a–tellin’ all about the misfortun’ in a proper vay, and then my fathe_omes a–lookin’ over him, and complicates the whole concern by puttin’ his oa_n. That’s just the wery sort o’ thing he’d do. You’re right, Mary, my dear.’
  • Having satisfied himself on this point, Sam read the letter all over, onc_ore, and, appearing to form a clear notion of its contents for the firs_ime, ejaculated thoughtfully, as he folded it up—
  • ‘And so the poor creetur’s dead! I’m sorry for it. She warn’t a bad–disposed ‘ooman, if them shepherds had let her alone. I’m wery sorry for it.’
  • Mr. Weller uttered these words in so serious a manner, that the prett_ousemaid cast down her eyes and looked very grave.
  • ‘Hows’ever,’ said Sam, putting the letter in his pocket with a gentle sigh, ‘it wos to be—and wos, as the old lady said arter she’d married the footman.
  • Can’t be helped now, can it, Mary?’
  • Mary shook her head, and sighed too.
  • ‘I must apply to the hemperor for leave of absence,’ said Sam.
  • Mary sighed again—the letter was so very affecting.
  • ‘Good–bye!’ said Sam.
  • ‘Good–bye,’ rejoined the pretty housemaid, turning her head away.
  • ‘Well, shake hands, won’t you?’ said Sam.
  • The pretty housemaid put out a hand which, although it was a housemaid’s, wa_ very small one, and rose to go.
  • ‘I shan’t be wery long avay,’ said Sam.
  • ‘You’re always away,’ said Mary, giving her head the slightest possible tos_n the air. ‘You no sooner come, Mr. Weller, than you go again.’
  • Mr. Weller drew the household beauty closer to him, and entered upon _hispering conversation, which had not proceeded far, when she turned her fac_ound and condescended to look at him again. When they parted, it was someho_r other indispensably necessary for her to go to her room, and arrange th_ap and curls before she could think of presenting herself to her mistress; which preparatory ceremony she went off to perform, bestowing many nods an_miles on Sam over the banisters as she tripped upstairs.
  • ‘I shan’t be avay more than a day, or two, Sir, at the furthest,’ said Sam, when he had communicated to Mr. Pickwick the intelligence of his father’_oss.
  • ‘As long as may be necessary, Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘you have my ful_ermission to remain.’
  • Sam bowed.
  • ‘You will tell your father, Sam, that if I can be of any assistance to him i_is present situation, I shall be most willing and ready to lend him any ai_n my power,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
  • ‘Thank’ee, sir,’ rejoined Sam. ‘I’ll mention it, sir.’
  • And with some expressions of mutual good–will and interest, master and ma_eparated.
  • It was just seven o’clock when Samuel Weller, alighting from the box of _tage–coach which passed through Dorking, stood within a few hundred yards o_he Marquis of Granby. It was a cold, dull evening; the little street looke_reary and dismal; and the mahogany countenance of the noble and gallan_arquis seemed to wear a more sad and melancholy expression than it was won_o do, as it swung to and fro, creaking mournfully in the wind. The blind_ere pulled down, and the shutters partly closed; of the knot of loungers tha_sually collected about the door, not one was to be seen; the place was silen_nd desolate.
  • Seeing nobody of whom he could ask any preliminary questions, Sam walke_oftly in, and glancing round, he quickly recognised his parent in th_istance.
  • The widower was seated at a small round table in the little room behind th_ar, smoking a pipe, with his eyes intently fixed upon the fire. The funera_ad evidently taken place that day, for attached to his hat, which he stil_etained on his head, was a hatband measuring about a yard and a half i_ength, which hung over the top rail of the chair and streamed negligentl_own. Mr. Weller was in a very abstracted and contemplative mood.
  • Notwithstanding that Sam called him by name several times, he still continue_o smoke with the same fixed and quiet countenance, and was only rouse_ltimately by his son’s placing the palm of his hand on his shoulder.
  • ‘Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘you’re welcome.’
  • ‘I’ve been a–callin’ to you half a dozen times,’ said Sam, hanging his hat o_ peg, ‘but you didn’t hear me.’
  • ‘No, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, again looking thoughtfully at the fire. ‘_as in a referee, Sammy.’
  • ‘Wot about?’ inquired Sam, drawing his chair up to the fire.
  • ‘In a referee, Sammy,’ replied the elder Mr. Weller, ‘regarding her, Samivel.’ Here Mr. Weller jerked his head in the direction of Dorking churchyard, i_ute explanation that his words referred to the late Mrs. Weller.
  • ‘I wos a–thinkin’, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, eyeing his son, with grea_arnestness, over his pipe, as if to assure him that however extraordinary an_ncredible the declaration might appear, it was nevertheless calmly an_eliberately uttered. ‘I wos a–thinkin’, Sammy, that upon the whole I wos wer_orry she wos gone.’
  • ‘Vell, and so you ought to be,’ replied Sam.
  • Mr. Weller nodded his acquiescence in the sentiment, and again fastening hi_yes on the fire, shrouded himself in a cloud, and mused deeply.
  • ‘Those wos wery sensible observations as she made, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, driving the smoke away with his hand, after a long silence.
  • ‘Wot observations?’ inquired Sam.
  • ‘Them as she made, arter she was took ill,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘Wo_as they?’
  • ‘Somethin’ to this here effect. “Veller,” she says, “I’m afeered I’ve not don_y you quite wot I ought to have done; you’re a wery kind–hearted man, and _ight ha’ made your home more comfortabler. I begin to see now,” she says, “ven it’s too late, that if a married ‘ooman vishes to be religious, sh_hould begin vith dischargin’ her dooties at home, and makin’ them as is abou_er cheerful and happy, and that vile she goes to church, or chapel, or wo_ot, at all proper times, she should be wery careful not to con–wert this sor_’ thing into a excuse for idleness or self–indulgence. I have done this,” sh_ays, “and I’ve vasted time and substance on them as has done it more than me; but I hope ven I’m gone, Veller, that you’ll think on me as I wos afore _now’d them people, and as I raly wos by natur.”
  • ‘“Susan,” says I—I wos took up wery short by this, Samivel; I von’t deny it, my boy—“Susan,” I says, “you’ve been a wery good vife to me, altogether; don’_ay nothin’ at all about it; keep a good heart, my dear; and you’ll live t_ee me punch that ‘ere Stiggins’s head yet.” She smiled at this, Samivel,’ said the old gentleman, stifling a sigh with his pipe, ‘but she died arte_ll!’
  • ‘Vell,’ said Sam, venturing to offer a little homely consolation, after th_apse of three or four minutes, consumed by the old gentleman in slowl_haking his head from side to side, and solemnly smoking, ‘vell, gov’nor, v_ust all come to it, one day or another.’
  • ‘So we must, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller the elder.
  • ‘There’s a Providence in it all,’ said Sam.
  • ‘O’ course there is,’ replied his father, with a nod of grave approval. ‘Wot ’ud become of the undertakers vithout it, Sammy?’
  • Lost in the immense field of conjecture opened by this reflection, the elde_r. Weller laid his pipe on the table, and stirred the fire with a meditativ_isage.
  • While the old gentleman was thus engaged, a very buxom–looking cook, dresse_n mourning, who had been bustling about, in the bar, glided into the room, and bestowing many smirks of recognition upon Sam, silently stationed hersel_t the back of his father’s chair, and announced her presence by a sligh_ough, the which, being disregarded, was followed by a louder one.
  • ‘Hollo!’ said the elder Mr. Weller, dropping the poker as he looked round, an_astily drew his chair away. ‘Wot’s the matter now?’
  • ‘Have a cup of tea, there’s a good soul,’ replied the buxom female coaxingly.
  • ‘I von’t,’ replied Mr. Weller, in a somewhat boisterous manner. ‘I’ll se_ou—’ Mr. Weller hastily checked himself, and added in a low tone, ‘furde_ust.’
  • ‘Oh, dear, dear! How adwersity does change people!’ said the lady, lookin_pwards.
  • ‘It’s the only thing ‘twixt this and the doctor as shall change my condition,’ muttered Mr. Weller.
  • ‘I really never saw a man so cross,’ said the buxom female.
  • ‘Never mind. It’s all for my own good; vich is the reflection vith vich th_enitent school–boy comforted his feelin’s ven they flogged him,’ rejoined th_ld gentleman.
  • The buxom female shook her head with a compassionate and sympathising air; and, appealing to Sam, inquired whether his father really ought not to make a_ffort to keep up, and not give way to that lowness of spirits.
  • ‘You see, Mr. Samuel,’ said the buxom female, ‘as I was telling him yesterday, he will feel lonely, he can’t expect but what he should, sir, but he shoul_eep up a good heart, because, dear me, I’m sure we all pity his loss, and ar_eady to do anything for him; and there’s no situation in life so bad, Mr.
  • Samuel, that it can’t be mended. Which is what a very worthy person said to m_hen my husband died.’ Here the speaker, putting her hand before her mouth, coughed again, and looked affectionately at the elder Mr. Weller.
  • ‘As I don’t rekvire any o’ your conversation just now, mum, vill you have th_oodness to re–tire?’ inquired Mr. Weller, in a grave and steady voice.
  • ‘Well, Mr. Weller,’ said the buxom female, ‘I’m sure I only spoke to you ou_f kindness.’
  • ‘Wery likely, mum,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Samivel, show the lady out, and shu_he door after her.’
  • This hint was not lost upon the buxom female; for she at once left the room, and slammed the door behind her, upon which Mr. Weller, senior, falling bac_n his chair in a violent perspiration, said—
  • ‘Sammy, if I wos to stop here alone vun week—only vun week, my boy—that ‘ere ‘ooman ’ud marry me by force and wiolence afore it was over.’
  • ‘Wot! is she so wery fond on you?’ inquired Sam.
  • ‘Fond!’ replied his father. ‘I can’t keep her avay from me. If I was locked u_n a fireproof chest vith a patent Brahmin, she’d find means to get at me, Sammy.’
  • ‘Wot a thing it is to be so sought arter!’ observed Sam, smiling.
  • ‘I don’t take no pride out on it, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, poking the fir_ehemently, ‘it’s a horrid sitiwation. I’m actiwally drove out o’ house an_ome by it. The breath was scarcely out o’ your poor mother–in–law’s body, ve_un old ‘ooman sends me a pot o’ jam, and another a pot o’ jelly, and anothe_rews a blessed large jug o’ camomile–tea, vich she brings in vith her ow_ands.’ Mr. Weller paused with an aspect of intense disgust, and lookin_ound, added in a whisper, ‘They wos all widders, Sammy, all on ’em, ‘cept th_amomile–tea vun, as wos a single young lady o’ fifty–three.’
  • Sam gave a comical look in reply, and the old gentleman having broken a_bstinate lump of coal, with a countenance expressive of as much earnestnes_nd malice as if it had been the head of one of the widows last–mentioned, said:
  • ‘In short, Sammy, I feel that I ain’t safe anyveres but on the box.’
  • ‘How are you safer there than anyveres else?’ interrupted Sam.
  • “Cos a coachman’s a privileged indiwidual,’ replied Mr. Weller, lookin_ixedly at his son. ‘‘Cos a coachman may do vithout suspicion wot other me_ay not; ‘cos a coachman may be on the wery amicablest terms with eighty mil_’ females, and yet nobody think that he ever means to marry any vun among ’em. And wot other man can say the same, Sammy?’
  • ‘Vell, there’s somethin’ in that,’ said Sam.
  • ‘If your gov’nor had been a coachman,’ reasoned Mr. Weller, ‘do you s’pose a_hat ‘ere jury ’ud ever ha’ conwicted him, s’posin’ it possible as the matte_ould ha’ gone to that extremity? They dustn’t ha’ done it.’
  • ‘Wy not?’ said Sam, rather disparagingly.
  • ‘Wy not!’ rejoined Mr. Weller; ‘‘cos it ’ud ha’ gone agin their consciences. _eg’lar coachman’s a sort o’ con–nectin’ link betwixt singleness an_atrimony, and every practicable man knows it.’
  • ‘Wot! You mean, they’re gen’ral favorites, and nobody takes adwantage on ’em, p’raps?’ said Sam.
  • His father nodded.
  • ‘How it ever come to that ‘ere pass,’ resumed the parent Weller, ‘I can’t say.
  • Wy it is that long–stage coachmen possess such insiniwations, and is alvay_ooked up to—a–dored I may say—by ev’ry young ‘ooman in ev’ry town he vurk_hrough, I don’t know. I only know that so it is. It’s a regulation of natur—_ispensary, as your poor mother–in–law used to say.’
  • ‘A dispensation,’ said Sam, correcting the old gentleman.
  • ‘Wery good, Samivel, a dispensation if you like it better,’ returned Mr.
  • Weller; ‘I call it a dispensary, and it’s always writ up so, at the place_ere they gives you physic for nothin’ in your own bottles; that’s all.’
  • With these words, Mr. Weller refilled and relighted his pipe, and once mor_ummoning up a meditative expression of countenance, continued as follows—
  • ‘Therefore, my boy, as I do not see the adwisability o’ stoppin here to b_arried vether I vant to or not, and as at the same time I do not vish t_eparate myself from them interestin’ members o’ society altogether, I hav_ome to the determination o’ driving the Safety, and puttin’ up vunce more a_he Bell Savage, vich is my nat’ral born element, Sammy.’
  • ‘And wot’s to become o’ the bis’ness?’ inquired Sam.
  • ‘The bis’ness, Samivel,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘good–vill, stock, an_ixters, vill be sold by private contract; and out o’ the money, two hundre_ound, agreeable to a rekvest o’ your mother–in–law’s to me, a little afor_he died, vill be invested in your name in—What do you call them things agin?’
  • ‘Wot things?’ inquired Sam.
  • ‘Them things as is always a–goin’ up and down, in the city.’
  • ‘Omnibuses?’ suggested Sam.
  • ‘Nonsense,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Them things as is alvays a–fluctooatin’, an_ettin’ theirselves inwolved somehow or another vith the national debt, an_he chequers bill; and all that.’
  • ‘Oh! the funds,’ said Sam.
  • ‘Ah!’ rejoined Mr. Weller, ‘the funs; two hundred pounds o’ the money is to b_nwested for you, Samivel, in the funs; four and a half per cent. reduce_ounsels, Sammy.’
  • ‘Wery kind o’ the old lady to think o’ me,’ said Sam, ‘and I’m wery muc_bliged to her.’
  • ‘The rest will be inwested in my name,’ continued the elder Mr. Weller; ‘an_en I’m took off the road, it’ll come to you, so take care you don’t spend i_ll at vunst, my boy, and mind that no widder gets a inklin’ o’ your fortun’, or you’re done.’
  • Having delivered this warning, Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with a more seren_ountenance; the disclosure of these matters appearing to have eased his min_onsiderably.
  • ‘Somebody’s a–tappin’ at the door,’ said Sam.
  • ‘Let ’em tap,’ replied his father, with dignity.
  • Sam acted upon the direction. There was another tap, and another, and then _ong row of taps; upon which Sam inquired why the tapper was not admitted.
  • ‘Hush,’ whispered Mr. Weller, with apprehensive looks, ‘don’t take no notic_n ’em, Sammy, it’s vun o’ the widders, p’raps.’
  • No notice being taken of the taps, the unseen visitor, after a short lapse, ventured to open the door and peep in. It was no female head that was thrus_n at the partially–opened door, but the long black locks and red face of Mr.
  • Stiggins. Mr. Weller’s pipe fell from his hands.
  • The reverend gentleman gradually opened the door by almost imperceptibl_egrees, until the aperture was just wide enough to admit of the passage o_is lank body, when he glided into the room and closed it after him, wit_reat care and gentleness. Turning towards Sam, and raising his hands and eye_n token of the unspeakable sorrow with which he regarded the calamity tha_ad befallen the family, he carried the high–backed chair to his old corner b_he fire, and, seating himself on the very edge, drew forth a brow_ocket–handkerchief, and applied the same to his optics.
  • While this was going forward, the elder Mr. Weller sat back in his chair, wit_is eyes wide open, his hands planted on his knees, and his whole countenanc_xpressive of absorbing and overwhelming astonishment. Sam sat opposite him i_erfect silence, waiting, with eager curiosity, for the termination of th_cene.
  • Mr. Stiggins kept the brown pocket–handkerchief before his eyes for som_inutes, moaning decently meanwhile, and then, mastering his feelings by _trong effort, put it in his pocket and buttoned it up. After this, he stirre_he fire; after that, he rubbed his hands and looked at Sam.
  • ‘Oh, my young friend,’ said Mr. Stiggins, breaking the silence, in a very lo_oice, ‘here’s a sorrowful affliction!’
  • Sam nodded very slightly.
  • ‘For the man of wrath, too!’ added Mr. Stiggins; ‘it makes a vessel’s hear_leed!’ Mr. Weller was overheard by his son to murmur something relative t_aking a vessel’s nose bleed; but Mr. Stiggins heard him not. ‘Do you know, young man,’ whispered Mr. Stiggins, drawing his chair closer to Sam, ‘whethe_he has left Emanuel anything?’
  • ‘Who’s he?’ inquired Sam.
  • ‘The chapel,’ replied Mr. Stiggins; ‘our chapel; our fold, Mr. Samuel.’
  • ‘She hasn’t left the fold nothin’, nor the shepherd nothin’, nor the animal_othin’,’ said Sam decisively; ‘nor the dogs neither.’
  • Mr. Stiggins looked slily at Sam; glanced at the old gentleman, who wa_itting with his eyes closed, as if asleep; and drawing his chair stil_earer, said—
  • ‘Nothing for me, Mr. Samuel?’
  • Sam shook his head.
  • ‘I think there’s something,’ said Stiggins, turning as pale as he could turn.
  • ‘Consider, Mr. Samuel; no little token?’
  • ‘Not so much as the vorth o’ that ‘ere old umberella o’ yourn,’ replied Sam.
  • ‘Perhaps,’ said Mr. Stiggins hesitatingly, after a few moments’ deep thought, ‘perhaps she recommended me to the care of the man of wrath, Mr. Samuel?’
  • ‘I think that’s wery likely, from what he said,’ rejoined Sam; ‘he wo_–speakin’ about you, jist now.’
  • ‘Was he, though?’ exclaimed Stiggins, brightening up. ‘Ah! He’s changed, _are say. We might live very comfortably together now, Mr. Samuel, eh? I coul_ake care of his property when you are away—good care, you see.’
  • Heaving a long–drawn sigh, Mr. Stiggins paused for a response.
  • Sam nodded, and Mr. Weller the elder gave vent to an extraordinary sound, which, being neither a groan, nor a grunt, nor a gasp, nor a growl, seemed t_artake in some degree of the character of all four.
  • Mr. Stiggins, encouraged by this sound, which he understood to betoken remors_r repentance, looked about him, rubbed his hands, wept, smiled, wept again, and then, walking softly across the room to a well–remembered shelf in on_orner, took down a tumbler, and with great deliberation put four lumps o_ugar in it. Having got thus far, he looked about him again, and sighe_rievously; with that, he walked softly into the bar, and presently returnin_ith the tumbler half full of pine–apple rum, advanced to the kettle which wa_inging gaily on the hob, mixed his grog, stirred it, sipped it, sat down, an_aking a long and hearty pull at the rum–and–water, stopped for breath.
  • The elder Mr. Weller, who still continued to make various strange and uncout_ttempts to appear asleep, offered not a single word during these proceedings; but when Stiggins stopped for breath, he darted upon him, and snatching th_umbler from his hand, threw the remainder of the rum–and–water in his face, and the glass itself into the grate. Then, seizing the reverend gentlema_irmly by the collar, he suddenly fell to kicking him most furiously, accompanying every application of his top–boot to Mr. Stiggins’s person, wit_undry violent and incoherent anathemas upon his limbs, eyes, and body.
  • ‘Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘put my hat on tight for me.’
  • Sam dutifully adjusted the hat with the long hatband more firmly on hi_ather’s head, and the old gentleman, resuming his kicking with greate_gility than before, tumbled with Mr. Stiggins through the bar, and throug_he passage, out at the front door, and so into the street—the kickin_ontinuing the whole way, and increasing in vehemence, rather tha_iminishing, every time the top–boot was lifted.
  • It was a beautiful and exhilarating sight to see the red–nosed man writhing i_r. Weller’s grasp, and his whole frame quivering with anguish as kic_ollowed kick in rapid succession; it was a still more exciting spectacle t_ehold Mr. Weller, after a powerful struggle, immersing Mr. Stiggins’s head i_ horse–trough full of water, and holding it there, until he was hal_uffocated.
  • ‘There!’ said Mr. Weller, throwing all his energy into one most complicate_ick, as he at length permitted Mr. Stiggins to withdraw his head from th_rough, ‘send any vun o’ them lazy shepherds here, and I’ll pound him to _elly first, and drownd him artervards! Sammy, help me in, and fill me a smal_lass of brandy. I’m out o’ breath, my boy.’