Page:The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club.djvu/140

92 y^ POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF

coach, and it's him as wants his boots, and you'd better do 'em, and that's all about it."

" Vy didn't you say so before," said Sara, with great indignation, singling out the boots in question from the heap before him. " For all I know'd he vas one o' the regular three-pennies. Private room I and a lady too I If he's anything of a gen'lm'n, he's vurth a shillin' a day, let alone the arrands."

Stimulated by this inspiring reflection, Mr. Samuel brushed away with such hearty good will, that in a few minutes the boots and shoes, with a polish which would have struck envy to the soul of the amiable Mr. Warren, (for they used Day and Martin at the White Hart) had arrived at the door of number five.

" Come in," said a man's voice, in reply to Sam's rap at the door.

Sam made his best bow, and stepped into the presence of a lady ana gentleman seated at breakfast. Having officiously deposited the gen- tleman's boots right and left at his feet, and the lady's shoes right and left at hers, he backed towards the door.

" Boots," said the gentleman.

" Sir," said Sam, closing the door, and keeping his hand on the knob of the lock.

•' Do you know — what's a-name — Doctors' Commons ? "

" Yes Sir."

" Where is it ? "

" Paul's Church-yard, Sir; low archway on the carriage-side, book- seller's at one corner, hot- el on the other, and two porters in the mid- dle as touts for licences."

" Touts for licences ! " said the gentleman.

touches their hats ven you walk in — 'Licence, Sir, licence ? ' Queer sort, them, and their mas'rs too, Sir — Old Bailey Proctors— and no mistake."
 * Touts for licences," replied Sam. "Two coves in vhite aprons-—

" What do they do ? " inquired the gentleman.

" Do I You, Sir ! That an't the worst on it, neither. They puts things into old gen'lm'ns heads as they never dreamed of. My father, Sir, vos a coachman. A vidower he vos, and fat enough for anything - — uncommon fat, to be sure. His missus dies, and leaves him four hundred pound. Down he goes to the Commons, to see the lawyer and draw the blunt — wery smart- — top boots on — nosegay in his button- hole — broad-brimmed tile — green shawl — quite the gen'lm'n. Goes through the archvay, thinking how he should inwest the money — up comes the touter, touches his hat — * Licence, Sir, licence ? '— ' What's that ? ' says my father. — * Licence, Sir,' says he. — ' What licence ? * says my father. — ' Marriage licence,' says the touter. — ' Dash my ves- iit,' says my father, ' I never thought o' that.' — * I think you wants one, Sir,' says the touter. My father pulls up, and thinks a bit — * No,* says he, * damme, I'm too old, b'sides I'm a many sizes too large,' says he. — « Not a bit on it, Sir,' says the touter. — ' Think not ? ' says my father. — < I'm sure not, says be; 'we married a gen'lm'n twice your size, last Monday.' — ' Did you, though,' said my father. — « To be sure,