‘You didn’t go to law, I hope?’ said Sam suspiciously.
‘Never in my life,’ replied the cobbler. ‘The fact is, I was ruined by having money left me.’
‘Come, come,’ said Sam, ‘that von’t do. I wish some rich enemy ’ud try to vork my destruction in that ‘ere vay. I’d let him.’
‘Oh, I dare say you don’t believe it,’ said the cobbler, quietly smoking his pipe. ‘I wouldn’t if I was you; but it’s true for all that.’
‘How wos it?’ inquired Sam, half induced to believe the fact already, by the look the cobbler gave him.
‘Just this,’ replied the cobbler; ‘an old gentleman that I worked for, down in the country, and a humble relation of whose I married—she’s dead, God bless her, and thank Him for it!—was seized with a fit and went off.’
‘Where?’ inquired Sam, who was growing sleepy after the numerous events of the day.
‘How should I know where he went?’ said the cobbler, speaking through his nose in an intense enjoyment of his pipe. ‘He went off dead.’
‘Oh, that indeed,’ said Sam. ‘Well?’
‘Well,’ said the cobbler, ‘he left five thousand pound behind him.’
‘And wery gen–teel in him so to do,’ said Sam.
‘One of which,’ continued the cobbler, ‘he left to me, ‘cause I married his relation, you see.’
‘Wery good,’ murmured Sam.
‘And being surrounded by a great number of nieces and nevys, as was always quarrelling and fighting among themselves for the property, he makes me his executor, and leaves the rest to me in trust, to divide it among ’em as the will prowided.’
‘Wot do you mean by leavin’ it on trust?’ inquired Sam, waking up a little. ‘If it ain’t ready–money, were’s the use on it?’
‘It’s a law term, that’s all,’ said the cobbler.
‘I don’t think that,’ said Sam, shaking his head. ‘There’s wery little trust at that shop. Hows’ever, go on.’ ‘Well,’ said the cobbler, ‘when I was going to take out a probate of the will, the nieces and nevys, who was desperately disappointed at not getting all the money, enters a caveat against it.’
‘What’s that?’ inquired Sam.
‘A legal instrument, which is as much as to say, it’s no go,’ replied the cobbler.
‘I see,’ said Sam, ‘a sort of brother–in–law o’ the have–his–carcass. Well.’
‘But,’ continued the cobbler, ‘finding that they couldn’t agree among themselves, and consequently couldn’t get up a case against the will, they withdrew the caveat, and I paid all the legacies. I’d hardly done it, when one nevy brings an action to set the will aside. The case comes on, some months afterwards, afore a deaf old gentleman, in a back room somewhere down by Paul’s Churchyard; and arter four counsels had taken a day a–piece to bother him regularly, he takes a week or two to consider, and read the evidence in six volumes, and then gives his judgment that how the testator was not quite right in his head, and I must pay all the money back again, and all the costs. I appealed; the case come on before three or four very sleepy gentlemen, who had heard it all before in the other court, where they’re lawyers without work; the only difference being, that, there, they’re called doctors, and in the other place delegates, if you understand that; and they very dutifully confirmed the decision of the old gentleman below. After that, we went into Chancery, where we are still, and where I shall always be. My lawyers have had all my thousand pound long ago; and what between the estate, as they call it, and the costs, I’m here for ten thousand, and shall stop here, till I die, mending shoes. Some gentlemen have talked of bringing it before Parliament, and I dare say would have done it, only they hadn’t time to come to me, and I hadn’t power to go to them, and they got tired of my long letters, and dropped the business. And this is God’s truth, without one word of suppression or exaggeration, as fifty people, both in this place and out of it, very well know.’
The cobbler paused to ascertain what effect his story had produced on Sam; but finding that he had dropped asleep, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, sighed, put it down, drew the bed–clothes over his head, and went to sleep, too.
Mr. Pickwick was sitting at breakfast, alone, next morning (Sam being busily engaged in the cobbler’s room, polishing his master’s shoes and brushing the black gaiters) when there came a knock at the door, which, before Mr. Pickwick could cry ‘Come in!’ was followed by the appearance of a head of hair and a cotton–velvet cap, both of which articles of dress he had no difficulty in recognising as the personal property of Mr. Smangle.
‘How are you?’ said that worthy, accompanying the inquiry with a score or two of nods; ‘I say—do you expect anybody this morning? Three men—devilish gentlemanly fellows—have been asking after you downstairs, and knocking at every door on the hall flight; for which they’ve been most infernally blown up by the collegians that had the trouble of opening ’em.’
‘Dear me! How very foolish of them,’ said Mr. Pickwick, rising. ‘Yes; I have no doubt they are some friends whom I rather expected to see, yesterday.’
‘Friends of yours!’ exclaimed Smangle, seizing Mr. Pickwick by the hand. ‘Say no more. Curse me, they’re friends of mine from this minute, and friends of Mivins’s, too. Infernal pleasant, gentlemanly dog, Mivins, isn’t he?’ said Smangle, with great feeling.
‘I know so little of the gentleman,’ said Mr. Pickwick, hesitating, ‘that I—’
‘I know you do,’ interrupted Smangle, clasping Mr. Pickwick by the shoulder. ‘You shall know him better. You’ll be delighted with him. That man, Sir,’ said Smangle, with a solemn countenance, ‘has comic powers that would do honour to Drury Lane Theatre.’
‘Has he indeed?’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Ah, by Jove he has!’ replied Smangle. ‘Hear him come the four cats in the wheel–barrow—four distinct cats, sir, I pledge you my honour. Now you know that’s infernal clever! Damme, you can’t help liking a man, when you see these traits about him. He’s only one fault—that little failing I mentioned to you, you know.’
As Mr. Smangle shook his head in a confidential and sympathising manner at this juncture, Mr. Pickwick felt that he was expected to say something, so he said, ‘Ah!’ and looked restlessly at the door.
‘Ah!’ echoed Mr. Smangle, with a long–drawn sigh. ‘He’s delightful company, that man is, sir. I don’t know better company anywhere; but he has that one drawback. If the ghost of his grandfather, Sir, was to rise before him this minute, he’d ask him for the loan of his acceptance on an eightpenny stamp.’
‘Dear me!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
‘Yes,’ added Mr. Smangle; ‘and if he’d the power of raising him again, he would, in two months and three days from this time, to renew the bill!’
‘Those are very remarkable traits,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but I’m afraid that while we are talking here, my friends may be in a state of great perplexity at not finding me.’
‘I’ll show ’em the way,’ said Smangle, making for the door. ‘Good–day. I won’t disturb you while they’re here, you know. By the bye—’
As Smangle pronounced the last three words, he stopped suddenly, reclosed the door which he had opened, and, walking softly back to Mr. Pickwick, stepped close up to him on tiptoe, and said, in a very soft whisper—
‘You couldn’t make it convenient to lend me half–a–crown till the latter end of next week, could you?’
Mr. Pickwick could scarcely forbear smiling,