damp umbrellas, a barrel of beer, a cask of warm brandy-and-water, and a small parlor-full of stale tobacco smoke, mixed; and was straightway led down stairs into the bar from which he had lately come, where he found himself standing opposite to, and in the grasp of, a perfectly strange gentleman of still stranger appearance, who, with his disengaged hand, rubbed his own head very hard, and looked at him, Pecksniff, with an evil countenance.
The gentleman was of that order of appearance, which is currently termed shabby-genteel, though in respect of his dress he can hardly be said to have been in any extremities, as his fingers were a long way out of his gloves, and the soles of his feet were at an inconvenient distance from the upper leather of his boots. His nether garments were of a blueish gray—violent in its colours once, but sobered now by age and dinginess—and were so stretched and strained in a tough conflict between his braces and his straps, that they appeared every moment in danger of flying asunder at the knees. His coat, in colour blue and of a military cut, was buttoned and frogged, up to his chin. His cravat was, in hue and pattern, like one of those mantles which hair-dressers are accustomed to wrap about their clients, during the progress of the professional mysteries. His hat had arrived at such a pass that it would have been hard to determine whether it was originally white or black. But he wore a moustache—a shaggy moustache too: nothing in the meek and merciful way, but quite in the fierce and scornful style: the regular Satanic sort of thing—and he wore, besides, a vast quantity of unbrushed hair. He was very dirty and very jaunty; very bold and very mean; very swaggering and very slinking; very much like a man who might have been something better, and unspeakably like a man who deserved to be something worse.
"You were eaves-dropping at that door, you vagabond!" said this gentleman.
Mr. Pecksniff cast him off, as Saint George might have repudiated the Dragon in that animal's last moments, and said:
"Where is Mrs. Lupin, I wonder! can the good woman possibly be aware that there is a person here who—"
"Stay!" said the gentleman. "Wait a bit. She does know. What then?"
"What then sir?" cried Mr. Pecksniff. "What then? Do you know, sir, that I am the friend and relative of that sick gentleman? That I am his protector, his guardian, his—"
"Not his niece's husband," interposed the stranger, "I'll be sworn; for he was there before you."
"What do you mean?" said Mr. Pecksniff, with indignant surprise. "What do you tell me sir?"
"Wait a bit!" cried the other. "Perhaps you are a cousin—the cousin who lives in this place?"
"I am the cousin who lives in this place," replied the man of worth.
"Your name is Pecksniff?" said the gentleman.
"It is."
"I am proud to know you, and I ask your pardon," said the gentleman touching his hat, and subsequently diving behind his cravat for a
