Charles Dickens - Sketches by Boz

“My name IS Trott,” replied number nineteen, breaking the seal. “You may go, waiter.” The waiter pulled down the window-blind, and then pulled it up again—for a regular waiter must do something before he leaves the room—adjusted the glasses on the side-board, brushed a place that was NOT dusty, rubbed his hands very hard, walked stealthily to the door, and evaporated.

There was, evidently, something in the contents of the letter, of a nature, if not wholly unexpected, certainly extremely disagreeable. Mr. Alexander Trott laid it down, and took it up again, and walked about the room on particular squares of the carpet, and even attempted, though unsuccessfully, to whistle an air. It wouldn't do. He threw himself into a chair, and read the following epistle aloud:—

“Blue Lion and Stomach-warmer, “Great Winglebury. “Wednesday Morning.

“Sir. Immediately on discovering your intentions, I left our counting-house, and followed you. I know the purport of your journey;—that journey shall never be completed.

“I have no friend here, just now, on whose secrecy I can rely. This shall be no obstacle to my revenge. Neither shall Emily Brown be exposed to the mercenary solicitations of a scoundrel, odious in her eyes, and contemptible in everybody else's: nor will I tamely submit to the clandestine attacks of a base umbrella-maker.

“Sir. From Great Winglebury church, a footpath leads through four meadows to a retired spot known to the townspeople as Stiffun's Acre.” [Mr. Trott shuddered.] “I shall be waiting there alone, at twenty minutes before six o'clock to-morrow morning. Should I be disappointed in seeing you there, I will do myself the pleasure of calling with a horsewhip.

“HORACE HUNTER.

“PS. There is a gunsmiths in the High-street; and they won't sell gunpowder after dark—you understand me.

“PPS. You had better not order your breakfast in the morning until you have met me. It may be an unnecessary expense.”

“Desperate-minded villain! I knew how it would be!” ejaculated the terrified Trott. “I always told father, that once start me on this expedition, and Hunter would pursue me like the Wandering Jew. It's bad enough as it is, to marry with the old people's commands, and without the girl's consent; but what will Emily think of me, if I go down there breathless with running away from this infernal salamander? What SHALL I do? What CAN I do? If I go back to the city, I'm disgraced for ever—lose the girl—and, what's more, lose the money too. Even if I did go on to the Browns” by the coach, Hunter would be after me in a post-chaise; and if I go to this place, this Stiffun's Acre (another shudder), I'm as good as dead. I've seen him hit the man at the Pall-mall shooting-gallery, in the second button-hole of the waistcoat, five times out of every six, and when he didn't hit him there, he hit him in the head.” With this consolatory reminiscence Mr. Alexander Trott again ejaculated, “What shall I do?”

Long and weary were his reflections, as, burying his face in his hand, he sat, ruminating on the best course to be pursued. His mental direction-post pointed to London. He thought of the “governor's” anger, and the loss of the fortune which the paternal Brown had promised the paternal Trott his daughter should contribute to the coffers of his son. Then the words “To Brown's” were legibly inscribed on the said direction-post, but Horace Hunter's denunciation rung in his ears;—last of all it bore, in red letters, the words, “To Stiffun's Acre;” and then Mr. Alexander Trott decided on adopting a plan which he presently matured.

First and foremost, he despatched the under-boots to the Blue Lion and Stomach-warmer, with a gentlemanly note to Mr. Horace Hunter, intimating that he thirsted for his destruction and would do himself the pleasure of slaughtering him next morning, without fail. He then wrote another letter, and requested the attendance of the other boots—for they kept a pair. A modest knock at the room door was heard. “Come in,” said Mr. Trott. A man thrust in a red head with one eye in it, and being again desired to “come in,” brought in the body and the legs to which the head belonged, and a fur cap which belonged to the head.

“You are the upper-boots, I think?” inquired Mr. Trott.

“Yes, I am the upper-boots,” replied a voice from inside a velveteen case, with mother-of-pearl buttons—“that is, I'm the boots as b'longs to the house; the other man's my man, as goes errands and does odd jobs. Top-boots and half-boots, I calls us.”

“You're from London ?” inquired Mr. Trott.

“Driv a cab once,” was the laconic reply.

“Why don't you drive it now?” asked Mr. Trott.

“Over-driv the cab, and driv over a “ooman,” replied the top-boots, with brevity.

“Do you know the mayor's house?” inquired Mr. Trott.

“Rather,” replied the boots, significantly, as if he had some good reason to remember it.

“Do you think you could manage to leave a letter there?” interrogated Trott.

“Shouldn't wonder,” responded boots.

“But this letter,” said Trott, holding a deformed note with a paralytic direction in one hand, and five shillings in the other—“this letter is anonymous.”

“A—what?” interrupted the boots.

“Anonymous—he's not to know who it comes from.”

“Oh! I see,” responded the reg'lar, with a knowing wink, but without evincing the slightest disinclination to undertake the charge—“I see—bit o” Sving, eh?” and his one eye wandered round the room, as if in quest of a dark lantern and phosphorus-box. “But, I say!” he continued, recalling the eye from its search, and bringing it to bear on Mr. Trott. “I say, he's a lawyer, our mayor, and insured in the County. If you've a spite agen him, you'd better not burn his house down—blessed if I don't think it would be the greatest favour you could do him.” And he chuckled inwardly.

If Mr. Alexander Trott had been in any other situation, his first act would have been to kick the man down-stairs by deputy; or, in other words, to ring the bell, and desire the landlord to take his boots off. He contented himself, however, with doubling the fee and explaining that the letter merely related to a breach of the peace. The top-boots retired, solemnly pledged to secrecy; and Mr. Alexander Trott sat down to a fried sole, maintenon cutlet, Madeira, and sundries, with greater composure than he had experienced since the receipt of Horace Hunter's letter of defiance.

The lady who alighted from the London coach had no sooner been installed in number twenty-five, and made some alteration in her travelling-dress, than she indited a note to Joseph Overton, esquire, solicitor, and mayor of Great Winglebury, requesting his immediate attendance on private business of paramount importance—a summons which that worthy functionary lost no time in obeying; for after sundry openings of his eyes, divers ejaculations of “Bless me!” and other manifestations of surprise, he took his broad-brimmed hat from its accustomed peg in his little front office, and walked briskly down the High-street to the Winglebury Arms; through the hall and up the staircase of which establishment he was ushered by the landlady, and a crowd of officious waiters, to the door of number twenty-five.

“Show the gentleman in,” said the stranger lady, in reply to the foremost waiter's announcement. The gentleman was shown in accordingly.

The lady rose from the sofa; the mayor advanced a step from the door; and there they both paused, for a minute or two, looking at one another as if by mutual consent. The mayor saw before him a buxom, richly-dressed female of about forty; the lady looked upon a sleek man, about ten years older, in drab shorts and continuations, black coat, neckcloth, and gloves.