The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. Volume 1 of 2

“No, no,” murmured the spinster aunt; “I am better now. Bella, Emily – a surgeon! Is he wounded? – Is he dead? – Is he – ha, ha, ha!” Here the spinster aunt burst into fit number two, of hysteric laughter interspersed with screams.

“Calm yourself,” said Mr. Tupman, affected almost to tears by this expression of sympathy with his sufferings. “Dear, dear madam, calm yourself.”

“It is his voice!” exclaimed the spinster aunt; and strong symptoms of fit number three developed themselves forthwith.

“Do not agitate yourself, I entreat you, dearest madam,” said Mr. Tupman, soothingly. “I am very little hurt, I assure you.”

“Then you are not dead!” ejaculated the hysterical lady. “Oh, say you are not dead!”

“Don’t be a fool, Rachael,” interposed Mr. Wardle, rather more roughly than was quite consistent with the poetic nature of the scene. “What the devil’s the use of his saying he isn’t dead?”

“No, no, I am not,” said Mr. Tupman. “I require no assistance but yours. Let me lean on your arm.” He added in a whisper, “Oh, Miss Rachael!” The agitated female advanced, and offered her arm. They turned into the breakfast parlour. Mr. Tracy Tupman pressed her hand to his lips, and sank upon the sofa.

“Are you faint?” inquired the anxious Rachael.

“No,” said Mr. Tupman. “It is nothing. I shall be better presently.” He closed his eyes.

“He sleeps,” murmured the spinster aunt. (His organs of vision had been closed nearly twenty seconds.) “Dear – dear – Mr. Tupman!”

Mr. Tupman jumped up – “Oh, say those words again!” he exclaimed.

The lady started. “Surely you did not hear them!” she said, bashfully.

“Oh yes, I did!” replied Mr. Tupman; “repeat them. If you would have me recover, repeat them.”

“Hush!” said the lady. “My brother.”

Mr. Tracy Tupman resumed his former position; and Mr. Wardle, accompanied by a surgeon, entered the room.

The arm was examined, the wound dressed, and pronounced to be a very slight one; and the minds of the company having been thus satisfied, they proceeded to satisfy their appetites with countenances to which an expression of cheerfulness was again restored. Mr. Pickwick alone was silent and reserved. Doubt and distrust were exhibited in his countenance. His confidence in Mr. Winkle had been shaken – greatly shaken – by the proceedings of the morning.

“Are you a cricketer?” inquired Mr. Wardle of the marksman.

At any other time, Mr. Winkle would have replied in the affirmative. He felt the delicacy of the situation, and modestly replied “No.”

“Are you, sir?” inquired Mr. Snodgrass.

“I was once upon a time,” replied the host; “but I have given it up now. I subscribe to the club here, but I don’t play.”

“The grand match is played to-day, I believe?” said Mr. Pickwick.

“It is,” replied the host. “Of course you would like to see it?”

“I, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick, “am delighted to view any sport which may be safely indulged in, and in which the impotent effects of unskilful people do not endanger human life.” Mr. Pickwick paused, and looked steadily on Mr. Winkle, who quailed beneath his leader’s searching glance. The great man withdrew his eyes after a few minutes, and added; “Shall we be justified in leaving our wounded friend to the care of the ladies?”

“You cannot leave me in better hands,” said Mr. Tupman.

“Quite impossible,” said Mr. Snodgrass.

It was therefore settled that Mr. Tupman should be left at home in charge of the females; and that the remainder of the guests, under the guidance of Mr. Wardle, should proceed to the spot where was to be held that trial of skill, which had roused all Muggleton from its torpor, and inoculated Dingley Dell with a fever of excitement.

As their walk, which was not above two miles long, lay through shady lanes, and sequestered footpaths, and as their conversation turned upon the delightful scenery by which they were on every side surrounded, Mr. Pickwick was almost inclined to regret the expedition they had used, when he found himself in the main street of the town of Muggleton.

Everybody whose genius has a topographical bent knows perfectly well that Muggleton is a corporate town, with a mayor, burgesses, and freemen; and anybody who has consulted the addresses of the mayor to the freemen, or the freemen to the mayor, or both to the corporation, or all three to Parliament, will learn from thence what they ought to have known before, that Muggleton is an ancient and loyal borough, mingling a zealous advocacy of Christian principles with a devoted attachment to commercial rights; in demonstration whereof, the mayor, corporation, and other inhabitants, have presented at divers times, no fewer than one thousand four hundred and twenty petitions against the continuance of negro slavery abroad, and an equal number against any interference with the factory system at home; sixty-eight in favour of the sale of livings in the Church, and eighty-six for abolishing Sunday trading in the street.

Mr. Pickwick stood in the principal street of this illustrious town, and gazed with an air of curiosity, not unmixed with interest, on the objects around him. There was an open square for the market-place; and in the centre of it, a large inn with a sign-post in front, displaying an object very common in art, but rarely met with in nature – to wit, a blue lion, with three bow legs in the air, balancing himself on the extreme point of the centre claw of his fourth foot. There were, within sight, an auctioneer’s and fire-agency office, a corn-factor’s, a linen-draper’s, a saddler’s, a distiller’s, a grocer’s, and a shoe-shop – the last-mentioned warehouse being also appropriated to the diffusion of hats, bonnets, wearing apparel, cotton umbrellas, and useful knowledge. There was a red brick house with a small paved court-yard in front, which anybody might have known belonged to the attorney; and there was, moreover, another red brick house with Venetian blinds, and a large brass door-plate, with a very legible announcement that it belonged to the surgeon. A few boys were making their way to the cricket-field; and two or three shop-keepers who were standing at their doors looked as if they should like to be making their way to the same spot, as indeed to all appearance they might have done, without losing any great amount of custom thereby. Mr. Pickwick having paused to make these observations, to be noted down at a more convenient period, hastened to rejoin his friends, who had turned out of the main street, and were already within sight of the field of battle.

The wickets were pitched, and so were a couple of marquees for the rest and refreshment of the contending parties. The game had not yet commenced. Two or three Dingley Dellers, and All-Muggletonians, were amusing themselves with a majestic air by throwing the ball carelessly from hand to hand; and several other gentlemen dressed like them, in straw hats, flannel jackets, and white trousers – a costume in which they looked very much like amateur stone-masons – were sprinkled about the tents, towards one of which Mr. Wardle conducted the party.

Several dozen of “How-are-you’s?” hailed the old gentleman’s arrival; and a general raising of the straw hats, and bending forward of the flannel jackets, followed his introduction of his guests as gentlemen from London, who were extremely anxious to witness the proceedings of the day, with which, he had no doubt, they would be greatly delighted.

“You had better step into the marquee, I think, sir,” said one very stout gentleman, whose body and legs looked like half a gigantic roll of flannel, elevated on a couple of inflated pillow-cases.

“You’ll find it much pleasanter, sir,” urged another stout gentleman, who strongly resembled the other half of the roll of flannel aforesaid.

“You’re very good,” said Mr. Pickwick.

“This way,” said the first speaker; “they notch in here – it’s the best place in the whole field;” and the cricketer, panting on before, preceded them to the tent.

“Capital game – smart sport – fine exercise – very,” were the words which fell upon Mr. Pickwick’s ear as he entered the tent; and the first object that met his eyes was his green-coated friend of the Rochester coach, holding forth, to the no small delight and edification of a select circle of the chosen of All-Muggleton. His dress was slightly improved, and he wore boots; but there was no mistaking him.

The stranger recognised his friends immediately: and, darting forward and seizing Mr. Pickwick by the hand, dragged him to a seat with his usual impetuosity, talking all the while as if the whole of the arrangements were under his especial patronage and direction.

“This way – this way – capital fun – lots of beer – hogsheads; rounds of beef – bullocks; mustard – cart-loads; glorious day – down with you – make yourself at home – glad to see you – very.”

Mr. Pickwick sat down as he was bid, and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass also complied with the directions of their mysterious friend. Mr. Wardle looked on, in silent wonder.

“Mr. Wardle – a friend of mine,” said Mr. Pickwick.

“Friend of yours! – My dear sir, how are you? – Friend of my friend’s – give me your hand, sir” – and the stranger grasped Mr. Wardle’s hand with all the fervour of a close intimacy of many years, and then stepped back a pace or two as if to take a full survey of his face and figure, and then shook hands with him again, if possible, more warmly than before.

“Well; and how came you here?” said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile in which benevolence struggled with surprise.

“Come,” replied the stranger – “stopping at the Crown – Crown at Muggleton – met a party – flannel jackets – white trousers – anchovy sandwiches – devilled kidneys – splendid fellows – glorious.”

Mr. Pickwick was sufficiently versed in the stranger’s system of stenography to infer from this rapid and disjointed communication that he had, somehow or other, contracted an acquaintance with the All-Muggletons, which he had converted, by a process peculiar to himself, into that extent of good fellowship on which a general invitation may be easily founded. His curiosity was therefore satisfied, and putting on his spectacles he prepared himself to watch the play which was just commencing.

All-Muggleton had the first innings; and the interest became intense when Mr. Dumkins and Mr. Podder, two of the most renowned members of that most distinguished club, walked, bat in hand, to their respective wickets. Mr. Luffey, the highest ornament of Dingley Dell, was pitched to bowl against the redoubtable Dumkins, and Mr. Struggles was selected to do the same kind office for the hitherto unconquered Podder. Several players were stationed, to “look out,” in different parts of the field, and each fixed himself into the proper attitude by placing one hand on each knee, and stooping very much as if he were “making a back” for some beginner at leap-frog. All the regular players do this sort of thing; – indeed it’s generally supposed that it is quite impossible to look out properly in any other position.

The umpires were stationed behind the wickets; the scorers were prepared to notch the runs; a breathless silence ensued. Mr. Luffey retired a few paces behind the wicket of the passive Podder, and applied the ball to his right eye for several seconds. Dumkins confidently awaited its coming with his eyes fixed on the motions of Luffey.

“Play!” suddenly cried the bowler. The ball flew from his hand straight and swift towards the centre stump of the wicket. The wary Dumkins was on the alert; it fell upon the tip of the bat, and bounded far away over the heads of the scouts, who had just stooped low enough to let it fly over them.

“Run – run – another. – Now, then, throw her up – up with her – stop there – another – no – yes – no – throw her up, throw her up!” – Such were the shouts which followed the stroke; and, at the conclusion of which All-Muggleton had scored two. Nor was Podder behindhand in earning laurels wherewith to garnish himself and Muggleton. He blocked the doubtful balls, missed the bad ones, took the good ones, and sent them flying to all parts of the field. The scouts were hot and tired; the bowlers were changed and bowled till their arms ached; but Dumkins and Podder remained unconquered. Did an elderly gentleman essay to stop the progress of the ball, it rolled between his legs or slipped between his fingers. Did a slim gentleman try to catch it, it struck him on the nose, and bounded pleasantly off with redoubled violence, while the slim gentleman’s eyes filled with water, and his form writhed with anguish. Was it thrown straight up to the wicket, Dumkins had reached it before the ball. In short, when Dumkins was caught out, and Podder stumped out, All-Muggleton had notched some fifty-four, while the score of the Dingley Dellers was as blank as their faces. The advantage was too great to be recovered. In vain did the eager Luffey, and the enthusiastic Struggles, do all that skill and experience could suggest, to regain the ground Dingley Dell had lost in the contest; – it was of no avail; and in an early period of the winning game Dingley Dell gave in, and allowed the superior prowess of All-Muggleton.

The stranger, meanwhile, had been eating, drinking, and talking, without cessation. At every good stroke he expressed his satisfaction and approval of the player in a most condescending and patronising manner, which could not fail to have been highly gratifying to the party concerned; while at every bad attempt at a catch, and every failure to stop the ball, he launched his personal displeasure at the head of the devoted individual in such denunciations as “Ah, ah! – stupid” – “Now, butter-fingers” – “Muff” – “Humbug” – and so forth – ejaculations which seemed to establish him in the opinion of all around, as a most excellent and undeniable judge of the whole art and mystery of the noble game of cricket.

“Capital game – well played – some strokes admirable,” said the stranger, as both sides crowded into the tent, at the conclusion of the game.