Charles Dickens - Sketches by Boz

“I'll break the ice, my love,” said Mr. Budden, stirring up the sugar at the bottom of his glass of brandy-and-water, and casting a sidelong look at his spouse to see the effect of the announcement of his determination, “by asking Minns down to dine with us, on Sunday.”

“Then pray, Budden, write to your cousin at once,” replied Mrs. Budden. “Who knows, if we could only get him down here, but he might take a fancy to our Alexander, and leave him his property?—Alick, my dear, take your legs off the rail of the chair!”

“Very true,” said Mr. Budden, musing, “very true indeed, my love!” On the following morning, as Mr. Minns was sitting at his breakfast-table, alternately biting his dry toast and casting a look upon the columns of his morning paper, which he always read from the title to the printer's name, he heard a loud knock at the street-door; which was shortly afterwards followed by the entrance of his servant, who put into his hands a particularly small card, on which was engraven in immense letters, “Mr. Octavius Budden, Amelia Cottage (Mrs. B. “s name was Amelia), Poplar-walk, Stamfordhill.”

“Budden!” ejaculated Minns, “what can bring that vulgar man here!—say I'm asleep—say I'm out, and shall never be home again—anything to keep him down-stairs.”

“But please, sir, the gentleman's coming up,” replied the servant, and the fact was made evident, by an appalling creaking of boots on the staircase accompanied by a pattering noise; the cause of which, Minns could not, for the life of him, divine.

“Hem—show the gentleman in,” said the unfortunate bachelor. Exit servant, and enter Octavius preceded by a large white dog, dressed in a suit of fleecy hosiery, with pink eyes, large ears, and no perceptible tail.

The cause of the pattering on the stairs was but too plain. Mr. Augustus Minns staggered beneath the shock of the dog's appearance.

“My dear fellow, how are you?” said Budden, as he entered.

He always spoke at the top of his voice, and always said the same thing half-a-dozen times.

“How are you, my hearty?”

“How do you do, Mr. Budden?—pray take a chair!” politely stammered the discomfited Minns.

“Thank you—thank you—well—how are you, eh?”

“Uncommonly well, thank you,” said Minns, casting a diabolical look at the dog, who, with his hind legs on the floor, and his fore paws resting on the table, was dragging a bit of bread and butter out of a plate, preparatory to devouring it, with the buttered side next the carpet.

“Ah, you rogue!” said Budden to his dog; “you see, Minns, he's like me, always at home, eh, my boy!—Egad, I'm precious hot and hungry! I've walked all the way from Stamford-hill this morning.”

“Have you breakfasted?” inquired Minns.

“Oh, no!—came to breakfast with you; so ring the bell, my dear fellow, will you? and let's have another cup and saucer, and the cold ham.—Make myself at home, you see!” continued Budden, dusting his boots with a table-napkin. “Ha!—ha!—ha! –'pon my life, I'm hungry.”

Minns rang the bell, and tried to smile.

“I decidedly never was so hot in my life,” continued Octavius, wiping his forehead; “well, but how are you, Minns? “Pon my soul, you wear capitally!”

“D'ye think so?” said Minns; and he tried another smile.

“'Pon my life, I do!”

“Mrs. B. and—what's his name—quite well?”

“Alick—my son, you mean; never better—never better. But at such a place as we've got at Poplar-walk, you know, he couldn't be ill if he tried. When I first saw it, by Jove! it looked so knowing, with the front garden, and the green railings and the brass knocker, and all that—I really thought it was a cut above me.”

“Don't you think you'd like the ham better,” interrupted Minns, “if you cut it the other way?” He saw, with feelings which it is impossible to describe, that his visitor was cutting or rather maiming the ham, in utter violation of all established rules.

“No, thank ye,” returned Budden, with the most barbarous indifference to crime, “I prefer it this way, it eats short. But I say, Minns, when will you come down and see us? You will be delighted with the place; I know you will. Amelia and I were talking about you the other night, and Amelia said—another lump of sugar, please; thank ye—she said, don't you think you could contrive, my dear, to say to Mr. Minns, in a friendly way—come down, sir—damn the dog! he's spoiling your curtains, Minns—ha!—ha!—ha!” Minns leaped from his seat as though he had received the discharge from a galvanic battery.

“Come out, sir!—go out, hoo!” cried poor Augustus, keeping, nevertheless, at a very respectful distance from the dog; having read of a case of hydrophobia in the paper of that morning. By dint of great exertion, much shouting, and a marvellous deal of poking under the tables with a stick and umbrella, the dog was at last dislodged, and placed on the landing outside the door, where he immediately commenced a most appalling howling; at the same time vehemently scratching the paint off the two nicely-varnished bottom panels, until they resembled the interior of a backgammon-board.

“A good dog for the country that!” coolly observed Budden to the distracted Minns, “but he's not much used to confinement. But now, Minns, when will you come down? I'll take no denial, positively. Let's see, to-day's Thursday.—Will you come on Sunday? We dine at five, don't say no—do.”

After a great deal of pressing, Mr. Augustus Minns, driven to despair, accepted the invitation, and promised to be at Poplar-walk on the ensuing Sunday, at a quarter before five to the minute.

“Now mind the direction,” said Budden: “the coach goes from the Flower-pot, in Bishopsgate-street, every half hour. When the coach stops at the Swan, you'll see, immediately opposite you, a white house.”

“Which is your house—I understand,” said Minns, wishing to cut short the visit, and the story, at the same time.

“No, no, that's not mine; that's Grogus's, the great ironmonger's. I was going to say—you turn down by the side of the white house till you can't go another step further—mind that!—and then you turn to your right, by some stables—well; close to you, you'll see a wall with “Beware of the Dog” written on it in large letters—(Minns shuddered)—go along by the side of that wall for about a quarter of a mile—and anybody will show you which is my place.”

“Very well—thank ye—good-bye.”

“Be punctual.”

“Certainly: good morning.”

“I say, Minns, you've got a card.”

“Yes, I have; thank ye.” And Mr. Octavius Budden departed, leaving his cousin looking forward to his visit on the following Sunday, with the feelings of a penniless poet to the weekly visit of his Scotch landlady.

Sunday arrived; the sky was bright and clear; crowds of people were hurrying along the streets, intent on their different schemes of pleasure for the day; everything and everybody looked cheerful and happy except Mr. Augustus Minns.

The day was fine, but the heat was considerable; when Mr. Minns had fagged up the shady side of Fleet-street, Cheapside, and Threadneedle-street, he had become pretty warm, tolerably dusty, and it was getting late into the bargain. By the most extraordinary good fortune, however, a coach was waiting at the Flower-pot, into which Mr. Augustus Minns got, on the solemn assurance of the cad that the vehicle would start in three minutes—that being the very utmost extremity of time it was allowed to wait by Act of Parliament. A quarter of an hour elapsed, and there were no signs of moving. Minns looked at his watch for the sixth time.

“Coachman, are you going or not?” bawled Mr. Minns, with his head and half his body out of the coach window.