Whatever hostile intentions Mr. Smangle might have entertained, his thoughts were speedily diverted by the unpacking of the portmanteau; the contents of which appeared to impress him at once with a most favourable opinion, not only of Mr. Pickwick, but of Sam also, who, he took an early opportunity of declaring in a tone of voice loud enough for that eccentric personage to overhear, was a regular thorough-bred original, and consequently the very man after his own heart. As to Mr. Pickwick, the affection he conceived for him knew no limits.
“Now is there anything I can do for you, my dear sir?” said Smangle.
“Nothing that I am aware of, I am obliged to you,” replied Mr. Pickwick.
“No linen that you want sent to the washerwoman’s? I know a delightful washerwoman outside, that comes for my things twice a week; and, by Jove!—how devilish lucky!—this is the day she calls. Shall I put any of those little things up with mine? Don’t say anything about the trouble. Confound and curse it! if one gentleman under a cloud, is not to put himself a little out of the way to assist another gentleman in the same condition, what’s human nature?”
Thus spake Mr. Smangle, edging himself meanwhile as near as possible to the portmanteau, and beaming forth looks of the most fervent and disinterested friendship.
“There’s nothing you want to give out for the man to brush, my dear creature, is there?” resumed Smangle.
“Nothin’ whatever, my fine feller,” rejoined Sam, taking the reply into his own mouth. “P’raps if vun of us wos to brush, without troubling the man, it ’ud be more agreeable for all parties, as the schoolmaster said wen the young gentleman objected to being flogged by the butler.”
“And there’s nothing that I can send in my little box to the washerwoman’s, is there?” said Smangle, turning from Sam to Mr. Pickwick, with an air of some discomfiture.
“Nothin’ whatever, sir,” retorted Sam; “I’m afeerd the little box must be chock-full o’ your own as it is.”