“The principal productions of these towns,” says Mr. Pickwick, “appear to be soldiers, sailors, Jews, chalk, shrimps, officers, and dockyard men. The commodities chiefly exposed for sale in the public streets are marine stores, hard-bake, apples, flat-fish, and oysters. The streets present a lively and animated appearance, occasioned chiefly by the conviviality of the military. It is truly delightful to a philanthropic mind, to see these gallant men staggering along under the influence of an overflow, both of animal and ardent spirits; more especially when we remember that the following them about, and jesting with them, affords a cheap and innocent amusement for the boy population. Nothing (adds Mr. Pickwick) can exceed their good humour. It was but the day before my arrival that one of them had been most grossly insulted in the house of a publican. The bar-maid had positively refused to draw him any more liquor; in return for which he had (merely in playfulness) drawn his bayonet, and wounded the girl in the shoulder. And yet this fine fellow was the very first to go down to the house next morning, and express his readiness to overlook the matter, and forget what had occurred.

“The consumption of tobacco in these towns (continues Mr. Pickwick) must be very great: and the smell which pervades the streets must be exceedingly delicious to those who are extremely fond of smoking. A superficial traveller might object to the dirt, which is their leading characteristic; but to those who view it as an indication of traffic and commercial prosperity, it is truly gratifying.”

Punctual to five o’clock came the stranger, and shortly afterwards the dinner. He had divested himself of his brown paper parcel, but had made no alteration in his attire, and was, if possible, more loquacious than ever.

“What’s that?” he inquired, as the waiter removed one of the covers.

“Soles, sir.”

“Soles – ah! – capital fish – all come from London – stage-coach proprietors get up political dinners – carriage of soles – dozens of baskets – cunning fellows. Glass of wine, sir?”

“With pleasure,” said Mr. Pickwick, and the stranger took wine, first with him, and then with Mr. Snodgrass, and then with Mr. Tupman, and then with Mr. Winkle, and then with the whole party together, almost as rapidly as he talked.

“Devil of a mess on the staircase, waiter,” said the stranger. “Forms going up – carpenters coming down – lamps, glasses, harps. What’s going forward?”

“Ball, sir,” said the waiter.

“Assembly, eh?”

“No, sir, not Assembly, sir. Ball for the benefit of a charity, sir.”

“Many fine women in this town, do you know, sir?” inquired Mr. Tupman, with great interest.

“Splendid – capital. Kent, sir – everybody knows Kent – apples, cherries, hops, and women. Glass of wine, sir?”

“With great pleasure,” replied Mr. Tupman. The stranger filled, and emptied.

“I should very much like to go,” said Mr. Tupman, resuming the subject of the ball, “very much.”

“Tickets at the bar, sir,” interposed the waiter; “half a guinea each, sir.”

Mr. Tupman again expressed an earnest wish to be present at the festivity, but meeting with no response in the darkened eye of Mr. Snodgrass, or the abstracted gaze of Mr. Pickwick, he applied himself with great interest to the port wine and dessert, which had just been placed on the table. The waiter withdrew, and the party were left to enjoy the cosy couple of hours succeeding dinner.

“Beg your pardon, sir,” said the stranger, “bottle stands – pass it round – way of the sun – through the button-hole – no heeltaps,” and he emptied his glass, which he had filled about two minutes before, and poured out another, with the air of a man who was used to it.

The wine was passed, and a fresh supply ordered. The visitor talked, the Pickwickians listened. Mr. Tupman felt every moment more disposed for the ball. Mr. Pickwick’s countenance glowed with an expression of universal philanthropy, and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass fell fast asleep.

“They’re beginning up-stairs,” said the stranger – “hear the company – fiddles tuning – now the harp – there they go.” The various sounds which found their way down-stairs announced the commencement of the first quadrille.

“How I should like to go,” said Mr. Tupman again.

“So should I,” said the stranger, – “confounded luggage – heavy smacks – nothing to go in – odd, an’t it?”

Now general benevolence was one of the leading features of the Pickwickian theory, and no one was more remarkable for the zealous manner in which he observed so noble a principle than Mr. Tracy Tupman. The number of instances recorded on the Transactions of the Society, in which that excellent man referred objects of charity to the houses of other members for left-off garments, or pecuniary relief, is almost incredible.

“I should be very happy to lend you a change of apparel for the purpose,” said Mr. Tracy Tupman, “but you are rather slim, and I am – ”

“Rather fat – grown up Bacchus – cut the leaves – dismounted from the tub, and adopted kersey, eh? – not double distilled, but double milled – ha! ha! pass the wine.”

Whether Mr. Tupman was somewhat indignant at the peremptory tone in which he was desired to pass the wine which the stranger passed so quickly away, or whether he felt very properly scandalised at an influential member of the Pickwick Club being ignominiously compared to a dismounted Bacchus, is a fact not yet completely ascertained. He passed the wine, coughed twice, and looked at the stranger for several seconds with a stern intensity; as that individual, however, appeared perfectly collected, and quite calm under his searching glance, he gradually relaxed, and reverted to the subject of the ball.

“I was about to observe, sir,” he said, “that though my apparel would be too large, a suit of my friend Mr. Winkle’s would perhaps fit you better.”

The stranger took Mr. Winkle’s measure with his eye, and that feature glistened with satisfaction as he said – “Just the thing.”

Mr. Tupman looked round him. The wine, which had exerted its somniferous influence over Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle, had stolen upon the senses of Mr. Pickwick. That gentleman had gradually passed through the various stages which precede the lethargy produced by dinner, and its consequences. He had undergone the ordinary transitions from the height of conviviality to the depth of misery, and from the depth of misery to the height of conviviality. Like a gas lamp in the street, with the wind in the pipe, he had exhibited for a moment an unnatural brilliancy: then sunk so low as to be scarcely discernible: after a short interval he had burst out again, to enlighten for a moment, then flickered with an uncertain, staggering sort of light, and then gone out altogether. His head was sunk upon his bosom, and perpetual snoring, with a partial choke occasionally, were the only audible indications of the great man’s presence.

The temptation to be present at the ball, and to form his first impressions of the beauty of the Kentish ladies, was strong upon Mr. Tupman. The temptation to take the stranger with him was equally great. He was wholly unacquainted with the place and its inhabitants, and the stranger seemed to possess as great a knowledge of both as if he had lived there from his infancy. Mr. Winkle was asleep, and Mr. Tupman had had sufficient experience in such matters to know that the moment he awoke he would, in the ordinary course of nature, roll heavily to bed. He was undecided. “Fill your glass, and pass the wine,” said the indefatigable visitor.

Mr. Tupman did as he was requested, and the additional stimulus of the last glass settled his determination.

“Winkle’s bedroom is inside mine,” said Mr. Tupman; “I couldn’t make him understand what I wanted if I woke him now, but I know he has a dress suit in a carpet bag, and supposing you wore it to the ball, and took it off when we returned, I could replace it without troubling him at all about the matter.”

“Capital,” said the stranger, “famous plan – damned odd situation – fourteen coats in the packing cases, and obliged to wear another man’s – very good notion, that – very.”

“We must purchase our tickets,” said Mr. Tupman.

“Not worth while splitting a guinea,” said the stranger, “toss who shall pay for both – I call; you spin – first time – woman – woman – bewitching woman,” and down came the sovereign, with the Dragon (called by courtesy a woman) uppermost.

Mr. Tupman rang the bell, purchased the tickets, and ordered chamber candlesticks. In another quarter of an hour the stranger was completely arrayed in a full suit of Mr. Nathaniel Winkle’s.

“It’s a new coat,” said Mr. Tupman, as the stranger surveyed himself with great complacency in a cheval glass, “the first that’s been made with our club button,” and he called his companion’s attention to the large gilt button which displayed a bust of Mr. Pickwick in the centre, and the letters “P. C.” on either side.

“P. C.,” said the stranger – “queer set out – old fellow’s likeness, and ‘P. C.’ – What does ‘P. C.’ stand for – Peculiar Coat, eh?”

Mr. Tupman, with rising indignation and great importance, explained the mystic device.

“Rather short in the waist, an’t it,” said the stranger, screwing himself round to catch a glimpse in the glass of the waist buttons, which were half way up his back. “Like a general postman’s coat – queer coats those – made by contract – no measuring – mysterious dispensations of Providence – all the short men get long coats – all the long men short ones.” Running on in this way, Mr. Tupman’s new companion adjusted his dress, or rather the dress of Mr. Winkle; and, accompanied by Mr. Tupman, ascended the staircase leading to the ball-room.

“What names, sir?” said the man at the door. Mr. Tracy Tupman was stepping forward to announce his own titles, when the stranger prevented him.

“No names at all;” and then he whispered Mr. Tupman, “Names won’t do – not known – very good names in their way, but not great ones – capital names for a small party, but won’t make an impression in public assemblies – incog. the thing – Gentlemen from London – distinguished foreigners – anything.” The door was thrown open; and Mr. Tracy Tupman and the stranger entered the ball-room.

It was a long room, with crimson-covered benches, and wax candles in glass chandeliers. The musicians were securely confined in an elevated den, and quadrilles were being systematically got through by two or three sets of dancers. Two card-tables were made up in the adjoining card-room, and two pair of old ladies, and a corresponding number of stout gentlemen, were executing whist therein.

The finale concluded, the dancers promenaded the room, and Mr. Tupman and his companion stationed themselves in a corner to observe the company.

“Charming women,” said Mr. Tupman.

“Wait a minute,” said the stranger, “fun presently – nobs not come yet – queer place – Dock-yard people of upper rank don’t know Dock-yard people of lower rank – Dock-yard people of lower rank don’t know small gentry – small gentry don’t know tradespeople – Commissioner don’t know anybody.”

“Who’s that little boy with the light hair and pink eyes, in a fancy dress?” inquired Mr. Tupman.

“Hush, pray – pink eyes – fancy dress – little boy – nonsense – Ensign 97th – Honourable Wilmot Snipe – great family – Snipes – very.”

“Sir Thomas Clubber, Lady Clubber, and the Miss Clubbers!” shouted the man at the door in a stentorian voice. A great sensation was created throughout the room by the entrance of a tall gentleman in a blue coat and bright buttons, a large lady in blue satin, and two young ladies, on a similar scale, in fashionably-made dresses of the same hue.

“Commissioner – head of the yard – great man – remarkably great man,” whispered the stranger in Mr. Tupman’s ear, as the charitable committee ushered Sir Thomas Clubber and family to the top of the room. The Honourable Wilmot Snipe and other distinguished gentlemen crowded to render homage to the Miss Clubbers; and Sir Thomas Clubber stood bolt upright, and looked majestically over his black neckerchief at the assembled company.

“Mr. Smithie, Mrs. Smithie, and the Misses Smithie,” was the next announcement.

“What’s Mr. Smithie?” inquired Mr. Tracy Tupman.

“Something in the yard,” replied the stranger. Mr. Smithie bowed deferentially to Sir Thomas Clubber, and Sir Thomas Clubber acknowledged the salute with conscious condescension. Lady Clubber took a telescopic view of Mrs. Smithie and family through her eye-glass, and Mrs. Smithie stared in her turn at Mrs. Somebody else, whose husband was not in the Dock-yard at all.

“Colonel Bulder, Mrs. Colonel Bulder, and Miss Bulder,” were the next arrivals.

“Head of the Garrison,” said the stranger, in reply to Mr. Tupman’s inquiring look.

Miss Bulder was warmly welcomed by the Miss Clubbers; the greeting between Mrs. Colonel Bulder and Lady Clubber was of the most affectionate description; Colonel Bulder and Sir Thomas Clubber exchanged snuff-boxes, and looked very much like a pair of Alexander Selkirks – “Monarchs of all they surveyed.”

While the aristocracy of the place – the Bulders, and Clubbers, and Snipes – were thus preserving their dignity at the upper end of the room, the other classes of society were imitating their example in other parts of it. The less aristocratic officers of the 97th devoted themselves to the families of the less important functionaries from the Dock-yard. The solicitors’ wives and the wine-merchant’s wife headed another grade (the brewer’s wife visited the Bulders); and Mrs. Tomlinson, the post-office keeper, seemed by mutual consent to have been chosen the leader of the trade party.

One of the most popular personages in his own circle present was a little fat man, with a ring of upright black hair round his head, and an extensive bald plain on the top of it – Doctor Slammer, surgeon to the 97th. The Doctor took snuff with everybody, chatted with everybody, laughed, danced, made jokes, played whist, did everything, and was everywhere. To these pursuits, multifarious as they were, the little Doctor added a more important one than any – he was indefatigable in paying the most unremitting and devoted attention to a little old widow, whose rich dress and profusion of ornament bespoke her a most desirable addition to a limited income.

Upon the Doctor, and the widow, the eyes of both Mr. Tupman and his companion had been fixed for some time, when the stranger broke silence.

“Lots of money – old girl – pompous Doctor – not a bad idea – good fun,” were the intelligible sentences which issued from his lips. Mr. Tupman looked inquisitively in his face.

“I’ll dance with the widow,” said the stranger.

“Who is she?” inquired Mr. Tupman.

“Don’t know – never saw her in all my life – cut out the Doctor – here goes.” And the stranger forthwith crossed the room; and, leaning against a mantelpiece, commenced gazing with an air of respectful and melancholy admiration on the fat countenance of the little old lady. Mr. Tupman looked on, in mute astonishment. The stranger progressed rapidly; the little Doctor danced with another lady; the widow dropped her fan, the stranger picked it up, and presented it, – a smile – a bow – a curtsey – a few words of conversation. The stranger walked boldly up to, and returned with, the master of ceremonies; a little introductory pantomime; and the stranger and Mrs. Budger took their places in a quadrille.

The surprise of Mr. Tupman at this summary proceeding, great as it was, was immeasurably exceeded by the astonishment of the Doctor. The stranger was young, and the widow was flattered. The Doctor’s attentions were unheeded by the widow; and the Doctor’s indignation was wholly lost on his imperturbable rival. Doctor Slammer was paralysed. He, Doctor Slammer, of the 97th, to be extinguished in a moment, by a man whom nobody had ever seen before, and whom nobody knew even now! Doctor Slammer – Doctor Slammer of the 97th rejected! Impossible! It could not be! Yes, it was; there they were. What! introducing his friend! Could he believe his eyes! He looked again, and was under the painful necessity of admitting the veracity of his optics; Mrs. Budger was dancing with Mr. Tracy Tupman, there was no mistaking the fact. There was the widow before him, bouncing bodily, here and there, with unwonted vigour; and Mr. Tracy Tupman hopping about, with a face expressive of the most intense solemnity, dancing (as a good many people do) as if a quadrille were not a thing to be laughed at, but a severe trial to the feelings, which it requires inflexible resolution to encounter.

Silently and patiently did the Doctor bear all this, and all the handings of negus, and watching for glasses, and darting for biscuits, and coquetting, that ensued; but, a few seconds after the stranger had disappeared to lead Mrs. Budger to her carriage, he darted swiftly from the room with every particle of his hitherto-bottled-up indignation effervescing, from all parts of his countenance, in a perspiration of passion.

The stranger was returning, and Mr. Tupman was beside him. He spoke in a low tone and laughed. The little Doctor thirsted for his life. He was exulting. He had triumphed.

“Sir!” said the Doctor, in an awful voice, producing a card, and retiring into an angle of the passage, “my name is Slammer, Doctor Slammer, sir – 97th Regiment – Chatham Barracks – my card, sir, my card.” He would have added more, but his indignation choked him.

“Ah!” replied the stranger, coolly, “Slammer – much obliged – polite attention – not ill now, Slammer – but when I am – knock you up.”

“You – you’re a shuffler! sir,” gasped the furious Doctor, “a poltroon – a coward – a liar – a – a – will nothing induce you to give me your card, sir!”

“Oh! I see,” said the stranger, half aside, “negus too strong here – liberal landlord – very foolish – very – lemonade much better – hot rooms – elderly gentlemen – suffer for it in the morning – cruel – cruel;” and he moved on a step or two.

“You are stopping in this house, sir,” said the indignant little man; “you are intoxicated now, sir; you shall hear from me in the morning, sir. I shall find you out, sir; I shall find you out.”

“Rather you found me out than found me at home,” replied the unmoved stranger.

Doctor Slammer looked unutterable ferocity, as he fixed his hat on his head with an indignant knock; and the stranger and Mr. Tupman ascended to the bed-room of the latter to restore the borrowed plumage to the unconscious Winkle.

That gentleman was fast asleep; the restoration was soon made. The stranger was extremely jocose; and Mr. Tracy Tupman, being quite bewildered with wine, negus, lights, and ladies, thought the whole affair an exquisite joke. His new friend departed; and, after experiencing some slight difficulty in finding the orifice in his night-cap, originally intended for the reception of his head, and finally overturning his candlestick in his struggles to put it on, Mr. Tracy Tupman managed to get into bed by a series of complicated evolutions, and shortly afterwards sank into repose.

Seven o’clock had hardly ceased striking on the following morning when Mr. Pickwick’s comprehensive mind was aroused from the state of unconsciousness in which slumber had plunged it, by a loud knocking at his chamber door.

“Who’s there?” said Mr. Pickwick, starting up in bed.

“Boots, sir.”

“What do you want?”

“Please, sir, can you tell me which gentleman of your party wears a bright blue dress coat, with a gilt button with P. C. on it?”

“It’s been given out to brush,” thought Mr. Pickwick, “and the man has forgotten whom it belongs to. Mr. Winkle,” he called out, “next room but two, on the right hand.”

“Thank’ee, sir,” said the Boots, and away he went.

“What’s the matter?” cried Mr. Tupman, as a loud knocking at his door aroused him from his oblivious repose.

“Can I speak to Mr. Winkle, sir?” replied the Boots from the outside.

“Winkle – Winkle!” shouted Mr. Tupman, calling into the inner room.

“Hallo!” replied a faint voice from within the bed-clothes.

“You’re wanted – some one at the door – ” and having exerted himself to articulate thus much, Mr. Tracy Tupman turned round and fell fast asleep again.