Charles Dickens - Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

Rival offices had endeavoured to lure him away; Lombard Street itself had beckoned to him; rich companies had whispered “Be a Beadle!” but he still continued faithful to the Anglo-Bengalee. Whether he was a deep rogue, or a stately simpleton, it was impossible to make out, but he appeared to believe in the AngloBengalee. He was grave with imaginary cares of office; and having nothing whatever to do, and something less to take care of, would look as if the pressure of his numerous duties, and a sense of the treasure in the company's strong-room, made him a solemn and a thoughtful man.

As the cabriolet drove up to the door, this officer appeared bare-headed on the pavement, crying aloud “Room for the chairman, room for the chairman, if you please!” much to the admiration of the bystanders, who, it is needless to say, had their attention directed to the Anglo-Bengalee Company thenceforth, by that means. Mr Tigg leaped gracefully out, followed by the Managing Director (who was by this time very distant and respectful), and ascended the stairs, still preceded by the porter, who cried as he went, “By your leave there! by your leave! The Chairman of the Board, Gentle—MEN! In like manner, but in a still more stentorian voice, he ushered the chairman through the public office, where some humble clients were transacting business, into an awful chamber, labelled Board-room; the door of which sanctuary immediately closed, and screened the great capitalist from vulgar eyes.

The board-room had a Turkey carpet in it, a sideboard, a portrait of Tigg Montague, Esquire, as chairman; a very imposing chair of office, garnished with an ivory hammer and a little hand-bell; and a long table, set out at intervals with sheets of blotting-paper, foolscap, clean pens, and inkstands. The chairman having taken his seat with great solemnity, the secretary supported him on his right hand, and the porter stood bolt upright behind them, forming a warm background of waistcoat. This was the board: everything else being a light-hearted little fiction.

“Bullamy!” said Mr Tigg.

“Sir!” replied the porter.

“Let the Medical Officer know, with my compliments, that I wish to see him.”

Bullamy cleared his throat, and bustled out into the office, crying “The Chairman of the Board wishes to see the Medical Officer. By your leave there! By your leave!” He soon returned with the gentleman in question; and at both openings of the board-room door— at his coming in and at his going out—simple clients were seen to stretch their necks and stand upon their toes, thirsting to catch the slightest glimpse of that mysterious chamber.

“Jobling, my dear friend!” said Mr Tigg, “how are you? Bullamy, wait outside. Crimple, don't leave us. Jobling, my good fellow, I am glad to see you.”

“And how are you, Mr Montague, eh?” said the Medical Officer, throwing himself luxuriously into an easy-chair (they were all easychairs in the board-room), and taking a handsome gold snuff-box from the pocket of his black satin waistcoat. “How are you? A little worn with business, eh? If so, rest. A little feverish from wine, humph? If so, water. Nothing at all the matter, and quite comfortable? Then take some lunch. A very wholesome thing at this time of day to strengthen the gastric juices with lunch, Mr Montague.”

The Medical Officer (he was the same medical officer who had followed poor old Anthony Chuzzlewit to the grave, and who had attended Mrs Gamp's patient at the Bull) smiled in saying these words; and casually added, as he brushed some grains of snuff from his shirt-frill, “I always take it myself about this time of day, do you know!”

“Bullamy!” said the Chairman, ringing the little bell.

“Sir!”

“Lunch.”

“Not on my account, I hope?” said the doctor. “You are very good. Thank you. I'm quite ashamed. Ha, ha! if I had been a sharp practitioner, Mr Montague, I shouldn't have mentioned it without a fee; for you may depend upon it, my dear sir, that if you don't make a point of taking lunch, you'll very soon come under my hands. Allow me to illustrate this. In Mr Crimple's leg—”

The resident Director gave an involuntary start, for the doctor, in the heat of his demonstration, caught it up and laid it across his own, as if he were going to take it off, then and there.

“In Mr Crimple's leg, you'll observe,” pursued the doctor, turning back his cuffs and spanning the limb with both hands, “where Mr Crimple's knee fits into the socket, here, there is—that is to say, between the bone and the socket—a certain quantity of animal oil.”

“What do you pick MY leg out for?” said Mr Crimple, looking with something of an anxious expression at his limb. “It's the same with other legs, ain't it?”

“Never you mind, my good sir,” returned the doctor, shaking his head, “whether it is the same with other legs, or not the same.”

“But I do mind,” said David.

“I take a particular case, Mr Montague,” returned the doctor, “as illustrating my remark, you observe. In this portion of Mr Crimple's leg, sir, there is a certain amount of animal oil. In every one of Mr Crimple's joints, sir, there is more or less of the same deposit. Very good. If Mr Crimple neglects his meals, or fails to take his proper quantity of rest, that oil wanes, and becomes exhausted. What is the consequence? Mr Crimple's bones sink down into their sockets, sir, and Mr Crimple becomes a weazen, puny, stunted, miserable man!”

The doctor let Mr Crimple's leg fall suddenly, as if he were already in that agreeable condition; turned down his wristbands again, and looked triumphantly at the chairman.

“We know a few secrets of nature in our profession, sir,” said the doctor. “Of course we do. We study for that; we pass the Hall and the College for that; and we take our station in society BY that. It's extraordinary how little is known on these subjects generally. Where do you suppose, now'—the doctor closed one eye, as he leaned back smilingly in his chair, and formed a triangle with his hands, of which his two thumbs composed the base—'where do you suppose Mr Crimple's stomach is?”

Mr Crimple, more agitated than before, clapped his hand immediately below his waistcoat.

“Not at all,” cried the doctor; “not at all. Quite a popular mistake! My good sir, you're altogether deceived.”

“I feel it there, when it's out of order; that's all I know,” said Crimple.

“You think you do,” replied the doctor; “but science knows better. There was a patient of mine once,” touching one of the many mourning rings upon his fingers, and slightly bowing his head, “a gentleman who did me the honour to make a very handsome mention of me in his will—”in testimony,” as he was pleased to say, “of the unremitting zeal, talent, and attention of my friend and medical attendant, John Jobling, Esquire, M. R. C. S.,”—who was so overcome by the idea of having all his life laboured under an erroneous view of the locality of this important organ, that when I assured him on my professional reputation, he was mistaken, he burst into tears, put out his hand, and said, “Jobling, God bless you!” Immediately afterwards he became speechless, and was ultimately buried at Brixton.”

“By your leave there!” cried Bullamy, without. “By your leave! Refreshment for the Board-room!”

“Ha!” said the doctor, jocularly, as he rubbed his hands, and drew his chair nearer to the table. “The true Life Assurance, Mr Montague. The best Policy in the world, my dear sir. We should be provident, and eat and drink whenever we can. Eh, Mr Crimple?”

The resident Director acquiesced rather sulkily, as if the gratification of replenishing his stomach had been impaired by the unsettlement of his preconceived opinions in reference to its situation. But the appearance of the porter and under-porter with a tray covered with a snow-white cloth, which, being thrown back, displayed a pair of cold roast fowls, flanked by some potted meats and a cool salad, quickly restored his good humour. It was enhanced still further by the arrival of a bottle of excellent madeira, and another of champagne; and he soon attacked the repast with an appetite scarcely inferior to that of the medical officer.