Winter, having taken occupancy of
the full term of March, is refusing to relinquish his tenancy despite the
expiration of his lease, and Spring is forced to shiver out of doors and shake
her delicate blooms in the cold. One such unseasonably chilly morning, with
snow swirling in the air, finds Mr Headstone unwilling to stir. The pedagogue
is not an early riser at the brightest of times, and on this particular morning
his senses are dulled by a headache compounded of strong spirits and the
fermented air of a crowded tavern. His regrettable state is a consequence of having
attended on the previous evening a Harmonic Meeting featuring the Comic
Vocalist Little Swills, whose performances are regularly held at The Sol’s Arms under the direction of
that establishment’s highly respectable landlord, Mr James George Bogsby.
Mr Headstone had been accompanied
by Mr Guppy and Mr Weevle, and, as a consequence of the part these latter two
gentlemen had played in obliging Mr Bogsby on a certain occasion, the landlord invited
them to give their orders and to be welcome to whatever they put a name to.
Thus entreated the three companions (Mr Headstone especially) put names to so
many things that in the course of time they found it difficult to put a name to
anything quite distinctly. At length with slow retreating steps the night
departed, and the lamplighter went his rounds, snuffing out the lamps like so
many guttering candles.
And now the day discerns, even
with its dim London
eye, that Mr Headstone has been up all night. Over and above the pale face that
greets the morn, and the heels that lie prone on the hard floor instead of the
bed, the brick and plaster physiognomy of the pedagogue’s very room itself
looks worn and jaded. The windows peer out blearily onto the street; the hearth
exhales the tainted breath of the past night’s revels; and the ceiling wears a
wan and pinched expression, as if it were a mirror held up against the
pedagogue’s own pale visage. Mr Headstone’s condition is not in any degree
improved by a repeated and vigorous knocking at his door. His visitor has a
strong arm, and performs that operation which is a traditional prelude to admittance
so indefatigably that Mr Headstone feels as if the knuckles were being applied
to the exterior of his skull. When at last he can stand no more, he rises and
crosses the room (a feat of no small distinction) and opens the door to reveal
the Game Chicken, the very picture of health and vitality, boxing his own shadow
on the landing. That sporting gentleman, having being apprised of Mr
Headstone’s lamentable state from the two gentlemen who presaged him into it,
has come to offer aid and succor in the form of gymnastic exercises, and
requires the pedagogue to dress himself and accompany him to Leicester Square
for that very purpose.
