sam weller meets his father, and the pursuit

of jingle is continued. mr. pickwick makes

a strange call on a middle-aged

lady in yellow

curl papers

having arranged this matter in london, master and servant sat one evening in a public house when sam recognized in a stout man with his face buried in a quart pot, his own father, old tony weller, the stage-coach driver, and with great affection introduced him to mr. pickwick.

"how's mother-in-law?" asked sam.

the elder mr. weller shook his head as he replied, "i've done it once too often, samivel. take example by your father, my boy, and be very careful o' widders, 'specially if they've kept a public house."

mrs. weller the second, indeed, was the proprietress of a public house. to a shrill voice and a complaining disposition she added a dismal sort of piety which showed itself in much going to meeting, in considering her husband a lost and sinful wretch and in the entertaining of a prim-faced, red-nosed, rusty old hypocrite of a preacher who[pg 231] sat by her fireside every evening consuming quantities of toast and pineapple rum, and groaning at the depravity of her husband, who declined to give money to the preacher's society for sending flannel waistcoats and colored handkerchiefs to the infant negroes of the west indies. as may be imagined, sam's father led a sorry life at home.

the meeting with the elder weller proved a fortunate one, for when sam told of their experiences with jingle and job trotter, his father declared that he himself had driven the pair to the town of ipswich, where they were then living. nothing would satisfy mr. pickwick, when he heard this, but pursuit, and he and sam set out next morning by coach, mr. pickwick having written to the other pickwickians to follow him.

on the coach was a red-haired man with an inquisitive nose and blue spectacles, whose name was mr. peter magnus, and with whom (since they stopped at the same inn) mr. pickwick dined on his arrival. mr. magnus, before they parted for the night, grew confidential and informed him that he had come there to propose to a lady who was in the inn at that very moment.

for some time after he retired, mr. pickwick sat in his bedroom thinking. at length he rose to undress, when he remembered he had left his watch down stairs, and taking a candle he went to get it. he found it easily, but to retrace his steps proved more difficult. a dozen doors he thought his own,[pg 232] and a dozen times he turned a door-knob only to hear a gruff voice within. at last he found what he thought was his own room, the door ajar. the wind had blown out his candle, but the fire was bright, and mr. pickwick, as he retired behind the bed curtains to undress, smiled till he almost cracked his nightcap strings as he thought of his wanderings.

suddenly the smile faded—some one had entered the room and locked the door. "robbers!" thought mr. pickwick. he peered out between the curtains and almost fainted with horror. standing before the mirror was a middle-aged lady in yellow curl papers, brushing her back-hair.

"bless my soul!" thought mr. pickwick. "i must be in the wrong room. this is fearful!"

he waited a while, then coughed, first gently, then more loudly.

"gracious heaven!" said the middle-aged lady. "what's that?"

"it's—it's only a gentleman, ma'am," said mr. pickwick.

"a strange man!" exclaimed the lady with a terrific scream.

mr. pickwick put out his head in desperation.

"wretch!" she said, covering her face with her hands. "what do you want here?"

"nothing, ma'am—nothing whatever, ma'am," said mr. pickwick earnestly. "i am almost ready[pg 233] to sink, ma'am, beneath the confusion of addressing a lady in my nightcap (here the lady snatched off hers) but i can't get it off, ma'am! (here mr. pickwick gave it a tremendous tug). it is evident to me now that i have mistaken this bedroom for my own."

"if this be true," said the lady sobbing violently, "you will leave it instantly."

"certainly, ma'am," answered mr. pickwick appearing, "i—i—am very sorry, ma'am."

the lady pointed to the door. with his hat on over his nightcap, his shoes in his hand and his coat over his arm, mr. pickwick opened the door, dropping both shoes with a crash. "i trust, ma'am," he resumed, bowing very low, "that my unblemished character—" but before he could finish the sentence the lady had thrust him into the hall and bolted the door.

luckily mr. pickwick met, coming along the corridor, the faithful sam weller who took him safely to his room.