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Chapter 35

CHAPTER 35

Smike becomes known to Mrs Nickleby and Kate. Nicholas also meets
with new Acquaintances. Brighter Days seem to dawn upon the Family


Having established his mother and sister in the apartments of the
kind-hearted miniature painter, and ascertained that Sir Mulberry
Hawk was in no danger of losing his life, Nicholas turned his
thoughts to poor Smike, who, after breakfasting with Newman Noggs,
had remained, in a disconsolate state, at that worthy creature's
lodgings, waiting, with much anxiety, for further intelligence of
his protector.

'As he will be one of our own little household, wherever we live, or
whatever fortune is in reserve for us,' thought Nicholas, 'I must
present the poor fellow in due form. They will be kind to him for
his own sake, and if not (on that account solely) to the full extent
I could wish, they will stretch a point, I am sure, for mine.'

Nicholas said 'they', but his misgivings were confined to one
person. He was sure of Kate, but he knew his mother's
peculiarities, and was not quite so certain that Smike would find
favour in the eyes of Mrs Nickleby.

'However,' thought Nicholas as he departed on his benevolent errand;
'she cannot fail to become attached to him, when she knows what a
devoted creature he is, and as she must quickly make the discovery,
his probation will be a short one.'

'I was afraid,' said Smike, overjoyed to see his friend again, 'that
you had fallen into some fresh trouble; the time seemed so long, at
last, that I almost feared you were lost.'

'Lost!' replied Nicholas gaily. 'You will not be rid of me so
easily, I promise you. I shall rise to the surface many thousand
times yet, and the harder the thrust that pushes me down, the more
quickly I shall rebound, Smike. But come; my errand here is to take
you home.'

'Home!' faltered Smike, drawing timidly back.

'Ay,' rejoined Nicholas, taking his arm. 'Why not?'

'I had such hopes once,' said Smike; 'day and night, day and night,
for many years. I longed for home till I was weary, and pined away
with grief, but now--'

'And what now?' asked Nicholas, looking kindly in his face. 'What
now, old friend?'

'I could not part from you to go to any home on earth,' replied
Smike, pressing his hand; 'except one, except one. I shall never be
an old man; and if your hand placed me in the grave, and I could
think, before I died, that you would come and look upon it sometimes
with one of your kind smiles, and in the summer weather, when
everything was alive--not dead like me--I could go to that home
almost without a tear.'

'Why do you talk thus, poor boy, if your life is a happy one with
me?' said Nicholas.

'Because I should change; not those about me. And if they forgot
me, I should never know it,' replied Smike. 'In the churchyard we
are all alike, but here there are none like me. I am a poor
creature, but I know that.'

'You are a foolish, silly creature,' said Nicholas cheerfully. 'If
that is what you mean, I grant you that. Why, here's a dismal face
for ladies' company!--my pretty sister too, whom you have so often
asked me about. Is this your Yorkshire gallantry? For shame! for
shame!'

Smike brightened up and smiled.

'When I talk of home,' pursued Nicholas, 'I talk of mine--which is
yours of course. If it were defined by any particular four walls
and a roof, God knows I should be sufficiently puzzled to say
whereabouts it lay; but that is not what I mean. When I speak of
home, I speak of the place where--in default of a better--those I
love are gathered together; and if that place were a gypsy's tent,
or a barn, I should call it by the same good name notwithstanding.
And now, for what is my present home, which, however alarming your
expectations may be, will neither terrify you by its extent nor its
magnificence!'

So saying, Nicholas took his companion by the arm, and saying a
great deal more to the same purpose, and pointing out various things
to amuse and interest him as they went along, led the way to Miss La
Creevy's house.

'And this, Kate,' said Nicholas, entering the room where his sister
sat alone, 'is the faithful friend and affectionate fellow-traveller
whom I prepared you to receive.'

Poor Smike was bashful, and awkward, and frightened enough, at
first, but Kate advanced towards him so kindly, and said, in such a
sweet voice, how anxious she had been to see him after all her
brother had told her, and how much she had to thank him for having
comforted Nicholas so greatly in their very trying reverses, that he
began to be very doubtful whether he should shed tears or not, and
became still more flurried. However, he managed to say, in a broken
voice, that Nicholas was his only friend, and that he would lay down
his life to help him; and Kate, although she was so kind and
considerate, seemed to be so wholly unconscious of his distress and
embarrassment, that he recovered almost immediately and felt quite
at home.

Then, Miss La Creevy came in; and to her Smike had to be presented
also. And Miss La Creevy was very kind too, and wonderfully
talkative: not to Smike, for that would have made him uneasy at
first, but to Nicholas and his sister. Then, after a time, she
would speak to Smike himself now and then, asking him whether he was
a judge of likenesses, and whether he thought that picture in the
corner was like herself, and whether he didn't think it would have
looked better if she had made herself ten years younger, and whether
he didn't think, as a matter of general observation, that young
ladies looked better not only in pictures, but out of them too, than
old ones; with many more small jokes and facetious remarks, which
were delivered with such good-humour and merriment, that Smike
thought, within himself, she was the nicest lady he had ever seen;
even nicer than Mrs Grudden, of Mr Vincent Crummles's theatre; and
she was a nice lady too, and talked, perhaps more, but certainly
louder, than Miss La Creevy.

At length the door opened again, and a lady in mourning came in; and
Nicholas kissing the lady in mourning affectionately, and calling
her his mother, led her towards the chair from which Smike had risen
when she entered the room.

'You are always kind-hearted, and anxious to help the oppressed, my
dear mother,' said Nicholas, 'so you will be favourably disposed
towards him, I know.'

'I am sure, my dear Nicholas,' replied Mrs Nickleby, looking very
hard at her new friend, and bending to him with something more of
majesty than the occasion seemed to require: 'I am sure any friend
of yours has, as indeed he naturally ought to have, and must have,
of course, you know, a great claim upon me, and of course, it is a
very great pleasure to me to be introduced to anybody you take an
interest in. There can he no doubt about that; none at all; not the
least in the world,' said Mrs Nickleby. 'At the same time I must
say, Nicholas, my dear, as I used to say to your poor dear papa,
when he WOULD bring gentlemen home to dinner, and there was nothing
in the house, that if he had come the day before yesterday--no, I
don't mean the day before yesterday now; I should have said,
perhaps, the year before last--we should have been better able to
entertain him.'

With which remarks, Mrs Nickleby turned to her daughter, and
inquired, in an audible whisper, whether the gentleman was going to
stop all night.

'Because, if he is, Kate, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'I don't see
that it's possible for him to sleep anywhere, and that's the truth.'

Kate stepped gracefully forward, and without any show of annoyance
or irritation, breathed a few words into her mother's ear.

'La, Kate, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby, shrinking back, 'how you do
tickle one! Of course, I understand THAT, my love, without your
telling me; and I said the same to Nicholas, and I AM very much
pleased. You didn't tell me, Nicholas, my dear,' added Mrs
Nickleby, turning round with an air of less reserve than she had
before assumed, 'what your friend's name is.'

'His name, mother,' replied Nicholas, 'is Smike.'

The effect of this communication was by no means anticipated; but
the name was no sooner pronounced, than Mrs Nickleby dropped upon a
chair, and burst into a fit of crying.

'What is the matter?' exclaimed Nicholas, running to support her.

'It's so like Pyke,' cried Mrs Nickleby; 'so exactly like Pyke. Oh!
don't speak to me--I shall be better presently.'

And after exhibiting every symptom of slow suffocation in all its
stages, and drinking about a tea-spoonful of water from a full
tumbler, and spilling the remainder, Mrs Nickleby WAS better, and
remarked, with a feeble smile, that she was very foolish, she knew.

'It's a weakness in our family,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'so, of course,
I can't be blamed for it. Your grandmama, Kate, was exactly the
same--precisely. The least excitement, the slightest surprise--she
fainted away directly. I have heard her say, often and often, that
when she was a young lady, and before she was married, she was
turning a corner into Oxford Street one day, when she ran against
her own hairdresser, who, it seems, was escaping from a bear;--the
mere suddenness of the encounter made her faint away directly.
Wait, though,' added Mrs Nickleby, pausing to consider. 'Let me be
sure I'm right. Was it her hairdresser who had escaped from a bear,
or was it a bear who had escaped from her hairdresser's? I declare
I can't remember just now, but the hairdresser was a very handsome
man, I know, and quite a gentleman in his manners; so that it has
nothing to do with the point of the story.'

Mrs Nickleby having fallen imperceptibly into one of her
retrospective moods, improved in temper from that moment, and
glided, by an easy change of the conversation occasionally, into
various other anecdotes, no less remarkable for their strict
application to the subject in hand.

'Mr Smike is from Yorkshire, Nicholas, my dear?' said Mrs Nickleby,
after dinner, and when she had been silent for some time.

'Certainly, mother,' replied Nicholas. 'I see you have not
forgotten his melancholy history.'

'O dear no,' cried Mrs Nickleby. 'Ah! melancholy, indeed. You
don't happen, Mr Smike, ever to have dined with the Grimbles of
Grimble Hall, somewhere in the North Riding, do you?' said the good
lady, addressing herself to him. 'A very proud man, Sir Thomas
Grimble, with six grown-up and most lovely daughters, and the finest
park in the county.'

'My dear mother,' reasoned Nicholas, 'do you suppose that the
unfortunate outcast of a Yorkshire school was likely to receive many
cards of invitation from the nobility and gentry in the
neighbourhood?'

'Really, my dear, I don't know why it should be so very
extraordinary,' said Mrs Nickleby. 'I know that when I was at
school, I always went at least twice every half-year to the
Hawkinses at Taunton Vale, and they are much richer than the
Grimbles, and connected with them in marriage; so you see it's not
so very unlikely, after all.'

Having put down Nicholas in this triumphant manner, Mrs Nickleby was
suddenly seized with a forgetfulness of Smike's real name, and an
irresistible tendency to call him Mr Slammons; which circumstance
she attributed to the remarkable similarity of the two names in
point of sound both beginning with an S, and moreover being spelt
with an M. But whatever doubt there might be on this point, there
was none as to his being a most excellent listener; which
circumstance had considerable influence in placing them on the very
best terms, and inducing Mrs Nickleby to express the highest opinion
of his general deportment and disposition.

Thus, the little circle remained, on the most amicable and agreeable
footing, until the Monday morning, when Nicholas withdrew himself
from it for a short time, seriously to reflect upon the state of his
affairs, and to determine, if he could, upon some course of life,
which would enable him to support those who were so entirely
dependent upon his exertions.

Mr Crummles occurred to him more than once; but although Kate was
acquainted with the whole history of his connection with that
gentleman, his mother was not; and he foresaw a thousand fretful
objections, on her part, to his seeking a livelihood upon the stage.
There were graver reasons, too, against his returning to that mode
of life. Independently of those arising out of its spare and
precarious earnings, and his own internal conviction that he could
never hope to aspire to any great distinction, even as a provincial
actor, how could he carry his sister from town to town, and place to
place, and debar her from any other associates than those with whom
he would be compelled, almost without distinction, to mingle? 'It
won't do,' said Nicholas, shaking his head; 'I must try something
else.'

It was much easier to make this resolution than to carry it into
effect. With no greater experience of the world than he had
acquired for himself in his short trials; with a sufficient share of
headlong rashness and precipitation (qualities not altogether
unnatural at his time of life); with a very slender stock of money,
and a still more scanty stock of friends; what could he do? 'Egad!'
said Nicholas, 'I'll try that Register Office again.'

He smiled at himself as he walked away with a quick step; for, an
instant before, he had been internally blaming his own
precipitation. He did not laugh himself out of the intention,
however, for on he went: picturing to himself, as he approached the
place, all kinds of splendid possibilities, and impossibilities too,
for that matter, and thinking himself, perhaps with good reason,
very fortunate to be endowed with so buoyant and sanguine a
temperament.

The office looked just the same as when he had left it last, and,
indeed, with one or two exceptions, there seemed to be the very same
placards in the window that he had seen before. There were the same
unimpeachable masters and mistresses in want of virtuous servants,
and the same virtuous servants in want of unimpeachable masters and
mistresses, and the same magnificent estates for the investment of
capital, and the same enormous quantities of capital to be invested
in estates, and, in short, the same opportunities of all sorts for
people who wanted to make their fortunes. And a most extraordinary
proof it was of the national prosperity, that people had not been
found to avail themselves of such advantages long ago.

As Nicholas stopped to look in at the window, an old gentleman
happened to stop too; and Nicholas, carrying his eye along the
window-panes from left to right in search of some capital-text
placard which should be applicable to his own case, caught sight of
this old gentleman's figure, and instinctively withdrew his eyes
from the window, to observe the same more closely.

He was a sturdy old fellow in a broad-skirted blue coat, made pretty
large, to fit easily, and with no particular waist; his bulky legs
clothed in drab breeches and high gaiters, and his head protected by
a low-crowned broad-brimmed white hat, such as a wealthy grazier
might wear. He wore his coat buttoned; and his dimpled double chin
rested in the folds of a white neckerchief--not one of your stiff-
starched apoplectic cravats, but a good, easy, old-fashioned white
neckcloth that a man might go to bed in and be none the worse for.
But what principally attracted the attention of Nicholas was the old
gentleman's eye,--never was such a clear, twinkling, honest, merry,
happy eye, as that. And there he stood, looking a little upward,
with one hand thrust into the breast of his coat, and the other
playing with his old-fashioned gold watch-chain: his head thrown a
little on one side, and his hat a little more on one side than his
head, (but that was evidently accident; not his ordinary way of
wearing it,) with such a pleasant smile playing about his mouth, and
such a comical expression of mingled slyness, simplicity, kind-
heartedness, and good-humour, lighting up his jolly old face, that
Nicholas would have been content to have stood there and looked at
him until evening, and to have forgotten, meanwhile, that there was
such a thing as a soured mind or a crabbed countenance to be met
with in the whole wide world.

But, even a very remote approach to this gratification was not to be
made, for although he seemed quite unconscious of having been the
subject of observation, he looked casually at Nicholas; and the
latter, fearful of giving offence, resumed his scrutiny of the
window instantly.

Still, the old gentleman stood there, glancing from placard to
placard, and Nicholas could not forbear raising his eyes to his face
again. Grafted upon the quaintness and oddity of his appearance,
was something so indescribably engaging, and bespeaking so much
worth, and there were so many little lights hovering about the
corners of his mouth and eyes, that it was not a mere amusement, but
a positive pleasure and delight to look at him.

This being the case, it is no wonder that the old man caught
Nicholas in the fact, more than once. At such times, Nicholas
coloured and looked embarrassed: for the truth is, that he had begun
to wonder whether the stranger could, by any possibility, be looking
for a clerk or secretary; and thinking this, he felt as if the old
gentleman must know it.

Long as all this takes to tell, it was not more than a couple of
minutes in passing. As the stranger was moving away, Nicholas
caught his eye again, and, in the awkwardness of the moment,
stammered out an apology.

'No offence. Oh no offence!' said the old man.

This was said in such a hearty tone, and the voice was so exactly
what it should have been from such a speaker, and there was such a
cordiality in the manner, that Nicholas was emboldened to speak
again.

'A great many opportunities here, sir,' he said, half smiling as he
motioned towards the window.

'A great many people willing and anxious to be employed have
seriously thought so very often, I dare say,' replied the old man.
'Poor fellows, poor fellows!'

He moved away as he said this; but seeing that Nicholas was about to
speak, good-naturedly slackened his pace, as if he were unwilling to
cut him short. After a little of that hesitation which may be
sometimes observed between two people in the street who have
exchanged a nod, and are both uncertain whether they shall turn back
and speak, or not, Nicholas found himself at the old man's side.

'You were about to speak, young gentleman; what were you going to
say?'

'Merely that I almost hoped--I mean to say, thought--you had some
object in consulting those advertisements,' said Nicholas.

'Ay, ay? what object now--what object?' returned the old man,
looking slyly at Nicholas. 'Did you think I wanted a situation now
--eh? Did you think I did?'

Nicholas shook his head.

'Ha! ha!' laughed the old gentleman, rubbing his hands and wrists as
if he were washing them. 'A very natural thought, at all events,
after seeing me gazing at those bills. I thought the same of you,
at first; upon my word I did.'

'If you had thought so at last, too, sir, you would not have been
far from the truth,' rejoined Nicholas.

'Eh?' cried the old man, surveying him from head to foot. 'What!
Dear me! No, no. Well-behaved young gentleman reduced to such a
necessity! No no, no no.'

Nicholas bowed, and bidding him good-morning, turned upon his heel.

'Stay,' said the old man, beckoning him into a bye street, where they
could converse with less interruption. 'What d'ye mean, eh?'

'Merely that your kind face and manner--both so unlike any I have
ever seen--tempted me into an avowal, which, to any other stranger
in this wilderness of London, I should not have dreamt of making,'
returned Nicholas.

'Wilderness! Yes, it is, it is. Good! It IS a wilderness,' said
the old man with much animation. 'It was a wilderness to me once.
I came here barefoot. I have never forgotten it. Thank God!' and he
raised his hat from his head, and looked very grave.

'What's the matter? What is it? How did it all come about?' said the
old man, laying his hand on the shoulder of Nicholas, and walking
him up the street. 'You're--Eh?' laying his finger on the sleeve of
his black coat. 'Who's it for, eh?'

'My father,' replied Nicholas.

'Ah!' said the old gentleman quickly. 'Bad thing for a young man to
lose his father. Widowed mother, perhaps?'

Nicholas sighed.

'Brothers and sisters too? Eh?'

'One sister,' rejoined Nicholas.

'Poor thing, poor thing! You are a scholar too, I dare say?' said
the old man, looking wistfully into the face of the young one.

'I have been tolerably well educated,' said Nicholas.

'Fine thing,' said the old gentleman, 'education a great thing: a
very great thing! I never had any. I admire it the more in others.
A very fine thing. Yes, yes. Tell me more of your history. Let me
hear it all. No impertinent curiosity--no, no, no.'

There was something so earnest and guileless in the way in which all
this was said, and such a complete disregard of all conventional
restraints and coldnesses, that Nicholas could not resist it. Among
men who have any sound and sterling qualities, there is nothing so
contagious as pure openness of heart. Nicholas took the infection
instantly, and ran over the main points of his little history
without reserve: merely suppressing names, and touching as lightly
as possible upon his uncle's treatment of Kate. The old man
listened with great attention, and when he had concluded, drew his
arm eagerly through his own.

'Don't say another word. Not another word' said he. 'Come along
with me. We mustn't lose a minute.'

So saying, the old gentleman dragged him back into Oxford Street,
and hailing an omnibus on its way to the city, pushed Nicholas in
before him, and followed himself.

As he appeared in a most extraordinary condition of restless
excitement, and whenever Nicholas offered to speak, immediately
interposed with: 'Don't say another word, my dear sir, on any
account--not another word,' the young man thought it better to
attempt no further interruption. Into the city they journeyed
accordingly, without interchanging any conversation; and the farther
they went, the more Nicholas wondered what the end of the adventure
could possibly be.

The old gentleman got out, with great alacrity, when they reached
the Bank, and once more taking Nicholas by the arm, hurried him
along Threadneedle Street, and through some lanes and passages on
the right, until they, at length, emerged in a quiet shady little
square. Into the oldest and cleanest-looking house of business in
the square, he led the way. The only inscription on the door-post
was 'Cheeryble, Brothers;' but from a hasty glance at the directions
of some packages which were lying about, Nicholas supposed that the
brothers Cheeryble were German merchants.

Passing through a warehouse which presented every indication of a
thriving business, Mr Cheeryble (for such Nicholas supposed him to
be, from the respect which had been shown him by the warehousemen
and porters whom they passed) led him into a little partitioned-off
counting-house like a large glass case, in which counting-house
there sat--as free from dust and blemish as if he had been fixed
into the glass case before the top was put on, and had never come
out since--a fat, elderly, large-faced clerk, with silver spectacles
and a powdered head.

'Is my brother in his room, Tim?' said Mr Cheeryble, with no less
kindness of manner than he had shown to Nicholas.

'Yes, he is, sir,' replied the fat clerk, turning his spectacle-
glasses towards his principal, and his eyes towards Nicholas, 'but
Mr Trimmers is with him.'

'Ay! And what has he come about, Tim?' said Mr Cheeryble.

'He is getting up a subscription for the widow and family of a man
who was killed in the East India Docks this morning, sir,' rejoined
Tim. 'Smashed, sir, by a cask of sugar.'

'He is a good creature,' said Mr Cheeryble, with great earnestness.
'He is a kind soul. I am very much obliged to Trimmers. Trimmers
is one of the best friends we have. He makes a thousand cases known
to us that we should never discover of ourselves. I am VERY much
obliged to Trimmers.' Saying which, Mr Cheeryble rubbed his hands
with infinite delight, and Mr Trimmers happening to pass the door
that instant, on his way out, shot out after him and caught him by
the hand.

'I owe you a thousand thanks, Trimmers, ten thousand thanks. I take
it very friendly of you, very friendly indeed,' said Mr Cheeryble,
dragging him into a corner to get out of hearing. 'How many
children are there, and what has my brother Ned given, Trimmers?'

'There are six children,' replied the gentleman, 'and your brother
has given us twenty pounds.'

'My brother Ned is a good fellow, and you're a good fellow too,
Trimmers,' said the old man, shaking him by both hands with
trembling eagerness. 'Put me down for another twenty--or--stop a
minute, stop a minute. We mustn't look ostentatious; put me down
ten pound, and Tim Linkinwater ten pound. A cheque for twenty pound
for Mr Trimmers, Tim. God bless you, Trimmers--and come and dine
with us some day this week; you'll always find a knife and fork, and
we shall be delighted. Now, my dear sir--cheque from Mr
Linkinwater, Tim. Smashed by a cask of sugar, and six poor
children--oh dear, dear, dear!'

Talking on in this strain, as fast as he could, to prevent any
friendly remonstrances from the collector of the subscription on the
large amount of his donation, Mr Cheeryble led Nicholas, equally
astonished and affected by what he had seen and heard in this short
space, to the half-opened door of another room.

'Brother Ned,' said Mr Cheeryble, tapping with his knuckles, and
stooping to listen, 'are you busy, my dear brother, or can you spare
time for a word or two with me?'

'Brother Charles, my dear fellow,' replied a voice from the inside,
so like in its tones to that which had just spoken, that Nicholas
started, and almost thought it was the same, 'don't ask me such a
question, but come in directly.'

They went in, without further parley. What was the amazement of
Nicholas when his conductor advanced, and exchanged a warm greeting
with another old gentleman, the very type and model of himself--the
same face, the same figure, the same coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth,
the same breeches and gaiters--nay, there was the very same white
hat hanging against the wall!

As they shook each other by the hand: the face of each lighted up by
beaming looks of affection, which would have been most delightful to
behold in infants, and which, in men so old, was inexpressibly
touching: Nicholas could observe that the last old gentleman was
something stouter than his brother; this, and a slight additional
shade of clumsiness in his gait and stature, formed the only
perceptible difference between them. Nobody could have doubted
their being twin brothers.

'Brother Ned,' said Nicholas's friend, closing the room-door, 'here
is a young friend of mine whom we must assist. We must make proper
inquiries into his statements, in justice to him as well as to
ourselves, and if they are confirmed--as I feel assured they will
be--we must assist him, we must assist him, brother Ned.'

'It is enough, my dear brother, that you say we should,' returned
the other. 'When you say that, no further inquiries are needed. He
SHALL be assisted. What are his necessities, and what does he
require? Where is Tim Linkinwater? Let us have him here.'

Both the brothers, it may be here remarked, had a very emphatic and
earnest delivery; both had lost nearly the same teeth, which
imparted the same peculiarity to their speech; and both spoke as if,
besides possessing the utmost serenity of mind that the kindliest
and most unsuspecting nature could bestow, they had, in collecting
the plums from Fortune's choicest pudding, retained a few for
present use, and kept them in their mouths.

'Where is Tim Linkinwater?' said brother Ned.

'Stop, stop, stop!' said brother Charles, taking the other aside.
'I've a plan, my dear brother, I've a plan. Tim is getting old, and
Tim has been a faithful servant, brother Ned; and I don't think
pensioning Tim's mother and sister, and buying a little tomb for the
family when his poor brother died, was a sufficient recompense for
his faithful services.'

'No, no, no,' replied the other. 'Certainly not. Not half enough,
not half.'

'If we could lighten Tim's duties,' said the old gentleman, 'and
prevail upon him to go into the country, now and then, and sleep in
the fresh air, besides, two or three times a week (which he could,
if he began business an hour later in the morning), old Tim
Linkinwater would grow young again in time; and he's three good
years our senior now. Old Tim Linkinwater young again! Eh, brother
Ned, eh? Why, I recollect old Tim Linkinwater quite a little boy,
don't you? Ha, ha, ha! Poor Tim, poor Tim!'

And the fine old fellows laughed pleasantly together: each with a
tear of regard for old Tim Linkinwater standing in his eye.

'But hear this first--hear this first, brother Ned,' said the old
man, hastily, placing two chairs, one on each side of Nicholas:
'I'll tell it you myself, brother Ned, because the young gentleman
is modest, and is a scholar, Ned, and I shouldn't feel it right that
he should tell us his story over and over again as if he was a
beggar, or as if we doubted him. No, no no.'

'No, no, no,' returned the other, nodding his head gravely. 'Very
right, my dear brother, very right.'

'He will tell me I'm wrong, if I make a mistake,' said Nicholas's
friend. 'But whether I do or not, you'll be very much affected,
brother Ned, remembering the time when we were two friendless lads,
and earned our first shilling in this great city.'

The twins pressed each other's hands in silence; and in his own
homely manner, brother Charles related the particulars he had heard
from Nicholas. The conversation which ensued was a long one, and
when it was over, a secret conference of almost equal duration took
place between brother Ned and Tim Linkinwater in another room. It
is no disparagement to Nicholas to say, that before he had been
closeted with the two brothers ten minutes, he could only wave his
hand at every fresh expression of kindness and sympathy, and sob
like a little child.

At length brother Ned and Tim Linkinwater came back together, when
Tim instantly walked up to Nicholas and whispered in his ear in a
very brief sentence (for Tim was ordinarily a man of few words),
that he had taken down the address in the Strand, and would call
upon him that evening, at eight. Having done which, Tim wiped his
spectacles and put them on, preparatory to hearing what more the
brothers Cheeryble had got to say.

'Tim,' said brother Charles, 'you understand that we have an
intention of taking this young gentleman into the counting-house?'

Brother Ned remarked that Tim was aware of that intention, and quite
approved of it; and Tim having nodded, and said he did, drew himself
up and looked particularly fat, and very important. After which,
there was a profound silence.

'I'm not coming an hour later in the morning, you know,' said Tim,
breaking out all at once, and looking very resolute. 'I'm not going
to sleep in the fresh air; no, nor I'm not going into the country
either. A pretty thing at this time of day, certainly. Pho!'

'Damn your obstinacy, Tim Linkinwater,' said brother Charles,
looking at him without the faintest spark of anger, and with a
countenance radiant with attachment to the old clerk. 'Damn your
obstinacy, Tim Linkinwater, what do you mean, sir?'

'It's forty-four year,' said Tim, making a calculation in the air
with his pen, and drawing an imaginary line before he cast it up,
'forty-four year, next May, since I first kept the books of
Cheeryble, Brothers. I've opened the safe every morning all that
time (Sundays excepted) as the clock struck nine, and gone over the
house every night at half-past ten (except on Foreign Post nights,
and then twenty minutes before twelve) to see the doors fastened,
and the fires out. I've never slept out of the back-attic one
single night. There's the same mignonette box in the middle of the
window, and the same four flower-pots, two on each side, that I
brought with me when I first came. There an't--I've said it again
and again, and I'll maintain it--there an't such a square as this in
the world. I KNOW there an't,' said Tim, with sudden energy, and
looking sternly about him. 'Not one. For business or pleasure, in
summer-time or winter--I don't care which--there's nothing like it.
There's not such a spring in England as the pump under the archway.
There's not such a view in England as the view out of my window;
I've seen it every morning before I shaved, and I ought to know
something about it. I have slept in that room,' added Tim, sinking
his voice a little, 'for four-and-forty year; and if it wasn't
inconvenient, and didn't interfere with business, I should request
leave to die there.'

'Damn you, Tim Linkinwater, how dare you talk about dying?' roared
the twins by one impulse, and blowing their old noses violently.

'That's what I've got to say, Mr Edwin and Mr Charles,' said Tim,
squaring his shoulders again. 'This isn't the first time you've
talked about superannuating me; but, if you please, we'll make it
the last, and drop the subject for evermore.'

With these words, Tim Linkinwater stalked out, and shut himself up
in his glass case, with the air of a man who had had his say, and
was thoroughly resolved not to be put down.

The brothers interchanged looks, and coughed some half-dozen times
without speaking.

'He must be done something with, brother Ned,' said the other,
warmly; 'we must disregard his old scruples; they can't be
tolerated, or borne. He must be made a partner, brother Ned; and if
he won't submit to it peaceably, we must have recourse to violence.'

'Quite right,' replied brother Ned, nodding his head as a man
thoroughly determined; 'quite right, my dear brother. If he won't
listen to reason, we must do it against his will, and show him that
we are determined to exert our authority. We must quarrel with him,
brother Charles.'

'We must. We certainly must have a quarrel with Tim Linkinwater,'
said the other. 'But in the meantime, my dear brother, we are
keeping our young friend; and the poor lady and her daughter will be
anxious for his return. So let us say goodbye for the present, and
--there, there--take care of that box, my dear sir--and--no, no, not
a word now; but be careful of the crossings and--'

And with any disjointed and unconnected words which would prevent
Nicholas from pouring forth his thanks, the brothers hurried him
out: shaking hands with him all the way, and affecting very
unsuccessfully--they were poor hands at deception!--to be wholly
unconscious of the feelings that completely mastered him.

Nicholas's heart was too full to allow of his turning into the
street until he had recovered some composure. When he at last
glided out of the dark doorway corner in which he had been compelled
to halt, he caught a glimpse of the twins stealthily peeping in at
one corner of the glass case, evidently undecided whether they
should follow up their late attack without delay, or for the present
postpone laying further siege to the inflexible Tim Linkinwater.

To recount all the delight and wonder which the circumstances just
detailed awakened at Miss La Creevy's, and all the things that were
done, said, thought, expected, hoped, and prophesied in consequence,
is beside the present course and purpose of these adventures. It is
sufficient to state, in brief, that Mr Timothy Linkinwater arrived,
punctual to his appointment; that, oddity as he was, and jealous, as
he was bound to be, of the proper exercise of his employers' most
comprehensive liberality, he reported strongly and warmly in favour
of Nicholas; and that, next day, he was appointed to the vacant
stool in the counting-house of Cheeryble, Brothers, with a present
salary of one hundred and twenty pounds a year.

'And I think, my dear brother,' said Nicholas's first friend, 'that
if we were to let them that little cottage at Bow which is empty, at
something under the usual rent, now? Eh, brother Ned?'

'For nothing at all,' said brother Ned. 'We are rich, and should be
ashamed to touch the rent under such circumstances as these. Where
is Tim Linkinwater?--for nothing at all, my dear brother, for
nothing at all.'

'Perhaps it would be better to say something, brother Ned,'
suggested the other, mildly; 'it would help to preserve habits of
frugality, you know, and remove any painful sense of overwhelming
obligations. We might say fifteen pound, or twenty pound, and if it
was punctually paid, make it up to them in some other way. And I
might secretly advance a small loan towards a little furniture, and
you might secretly advance another small loan, brother Ned; and if
we find them doing well--as we shall; there's no fear, no fear--we
can change the loans into gifts. Carefully, brother Ned, and by
degrees, and without pressing upon them too much; what do you say
now, brother?'

Brother Ned gave his hand upon it, and not only said it should be
done, but had it done too; and, in one short week, Nicholas took
possession of the stool, and Mrs Nickleby and Kate took possession
of the house, and all was hope, bustle, and light-heartedness.

There surely never was such a week of discoveries and surprises as
the first week of that cottage. Every night when Nicholas came
home, something new had been found out. One day it was a grapevine,
and another day it was a boiler, and another day it was the key of
the front-parlour closet at the bottom of the water-butt, and so on
through a hundred items. Then, this room was embellished with a
muslin curtain, and that room was rendered quite elegant by a
window-blind, and such improvements were made, as no one would have
supposed possible. Then there was Miss La Creevy, who had come out
in the omnibus to stop a day or two and help, and who was
perpetually losing a very small brown-paper parcel of tin tacks and
a very large hammer, and running about with her sleeves tucked up at
the wrists, and falling off pairs of steps and hurting herself very
much--and Mrs Nickleby, who talked incessantly, and did something
now and then, but not often--and Kate, who busied herself
noiselessly everywhere, and was pleased with everything--and Smike,
who made the garden a perfect wonder to look upon--and Nicholas, who
helped and encouraged them every one--all the peace and cheerfulness
of home restored, with such new zest imparted to every frugal
pleasure, and such delight to every hour of meeting, as misfortune
and separation alone could give!

In short, the poor Nicklebys were social and happy; while the rich
Nickleby was alone and miserable.

Charles Dickens