When Mr Swiveller arrived at The Saracen's Head at the appointed hour to meet his fellow Bulldogs for the express purpose of toasting the memory of the late lamented Bradley Headstone Esq., he was surprised to find his way to that hostelry impeded by a large multitude. From the appearance of their dress and the manner of their behaviour, Mr Swiveller surmised that - though great in number - these persons were not representative of society as a whole, but rather occupied that portion of it which is sometimes likened to the sediment at the bottom of a glass of ale.
Having occupied its ground, the mob was disinclined to give way, and Mr Swiveller was obliged to force a passage through the heaving ranks at no little inconvenience to his person. By the time he gained the parlour of the tavern he did not cut a very insinuating figure: his dress was literally crushed from head to foot, his hat beaten out of all shape, and his shoes trodden down at heel like slippers. His coat fluttered in strips about him, half his neckerchief was gone, and his shirt was rent to tatters. He was greeted by Mr Tappertit, who presented himself in a remarkably similar state of dishabille and who was moreover begrimed with mud and dust on account of a dispute with a hostler on a question of right of way, which Mr Tappertit had graciously conceded after only a brief exchange of opinion.
The appearance of such a great number of people for the occasion was explained by the production of a handbill, which Mr Tapperit had had printed up and distributed in great haste. The bill proclaimed the intention of the United Bulldogs to raise a glass to the memory of Mr Bradley Headstone and called on all honest patriots to do the same. Although Mr Swiveller applauded the sentiment, he was in some doubt as to whether there were enough casks in the cellar to slake the thirst of the mob, and, more worryingly, who would settle the reckoning.
Mr Charles Dickens
