Returning to his lodgings after his misadventure in the gin palace, Mr Headstone measured the length of his aching frame - battered and bruised from the unwonted attentions of two dozen pairs of boot caps - on the fusty linen of his unmade bed and spent the remainder of the day in the contemplation of a damp patch in a corner of the ceiling. At five o'clock there was a knock on the door and the grinning visage of Simon Tappertit appeared from around the same like a head in the phantasmagoria to announce that Mr Headstone's company was desired at The George and Vulture without any further delay. To the consternation of Mr Tappertit and the subsequent incredulity of Mr Guppy and Mr Snodgrass to whom the information was relayed with immediate dispatch, Mr Headstone announced his resolution to forsake all strong liquor for the remainder of his natural life, or (failing that resolution) at least up until that moment his patriotic duty would oblige him to drink a toast to the monarch. There having been no public holidays in the intervening forty-eight hours, Mr Headstone has remained true to his word, despite a tendency to chew his bottom lip in an overly aggressive manner whenever the matter of liquid refreshment is mentioned in his company.
Given the parlous state of his constitution, which his medical man will attest has never been of the most robust kind, it is questionable whether Mr Headstone should be considering a journey of any greater distance than one that would take him to the chemist's shop on the corner. The plain fact of the matter is, however, that important affairs of business call him away for a period of nine days, and he must endure the discomfort of various forms of public conveyance if he is to put those affairs into order.
As any intrepid traveller knows, the first stage of a journey is the preparation of a portmanteau. The manner in which a person executes this task may be taken as a fairly reliable indication of their ability to adapt to the ever changing circumstances of life on the open road. Regrettably, Mr Headstone was in his approach to the simple act of packing - as in so many other things in life - of a rather indecisive nature. He would inevitably begin with resolve and determination by stuffing the entire contents of his meagre wardrobe into a carpet bag. However, as soon as the operation was complete, he would begin to wonder whether his second best waistcoat was indeed a necessary requirement, and - on deciding that it was not - would rummage around until he found it, displacing all the other garments to such a degree that he was obliged to initiate the entire process from the beginning.
If his absence was to be of any great length of time, Mr Headstone was inclined to include a number of personal items amongst his luggage. There was, for example, the stuffed perch in a glass case, which normally hung over the mantel, and which was of some sentimental value to the school master on account of the fact that he had won it at a game of cards. Other items, some of a more practical nature, included a cast iron skillet, a globe, a hurdy-gurdy, and a portrait of the Prince Regent. Inevitably, the inclusion of any of these items required the sacrifice of certain articles of clothing in order to make room in his carrying case. As sentiment was a governing feature of Mr Headstone's character (particularly when he was under the influence of Old Tom), it was not unusual for him to find himself in a hotel room comtemplating an example of piscine taxidermy whilst regretting the fact that he had elected not to pack a change of undergarments.
As Mr Headstone's journey is to last for more than a week and will take him to the northern extremities of the country, we may expect a variety of picaresque incidents to ensue, and we would like to ensure our readers that they will be faithfully reported in subsequent pages.
Mr Charles Dickens
