Chapter 6

MASTER HUMPHREY, FROM HIS CLOCK-SIDE IN THE CHIMNEY CORNER

TWO or three evenings after the institution of Mr. Weller's Watch,
I thought I heard, as I walked in the garden, the voice of Mr.
Weller himself at no great distance; and stopping once or twice to
listen more attentively, I found that the sounds proceeded from my
housekeeper's little sitting-room, which is at the back of the
house. I took no further notice of the circumstance at that time,
but it formed the subject of a conversation between me and my
friend Jack Redburn next morning, when I found that I had not been
deceived in my impression. Jack furnished me with the following
particulars; and as he appeared to take extraordinary pleasure in
relating them, I have begged him in future to jot down any such
domestic scenes or occurrences that may please his humour, in order
that they may be told in his own way. I must confess that, as Mr.
Pickwick and he are constantly together, I have been influenced, in
making this request, by a secret desire to know something of their
proceedings.

On the evening in question, the housekeeper's room was arranged
with particular care, and the housekeeper herself was very smartly
dressed. The preparations, however, were not confined to mere
showy demonstrations, as tea was prepared for three persons, with a
small display of preserves and jams and sweet cakes, which heralded
some uncommon occasion. Miss Benton (my housekeeper bears that
name) was in a state of great expectation, too, frequently going to
the front door and looking anxiously down the lane, and more than
once observing to the servant-girl that she expected company, and
hoped no accident had happened to delay them.

A modest ring at the bell at length allayed her fears, and Miss
Benton, hurrying into her own room and shutting herself up, in
order that she might preserve that appearance of being taken by
surprise which is so essential to the polite reception of visitors,
awaited their coming with a smiling countenance.

'Good ev'nin', mum,' said the older Mr. Weller, looking in at the
door after a prefatory tap. 'I'm afeerd we've come in rayther
arter the time, mum, but the young colt being full o' wice, has
been' a boltin' and shyin' and gettin' his leg over the traces to
sich a extent that if he an't wery soon broke in, he'll wex me into
a broken heart, and then he'll never be brought out no more except
to learn his letters from the writin' on his grandfather's
tombstone.'

With these pathetic words, which were addressed to something
outside the door about two feet six from the ground, Mr. Weller
introduced a very small boy firmly set upon a couple of very sturdy
legs, who looked as if nothing could ever knock him