Little Dorrit, Charles Dickens [big ebook reader txt] 📗

business had gone on in its customary course. Bleeding Heart Yard had been harrowed by Mr. Pancks, and cropped by Mr. Casby, at the regular seasons; Mr. Pancks had taken all the drudgery and all the dirt of the business as his share; Mr. Casby had taken all the profits, all the ethereal vapour, and all the moonshine, as his share; and, in the form of words which that benevolent beamer generally employed on Saturday evenings, when he twirled his fat thumbs after striking the week’s balance, “everything had been satisfactory to all parties⁠—all parties⁠—satisfactory, sir, to all parties.”

The Dock of the Steam-Tug, Pancks, had a leaden roof, which, frying in the very hot sunshine, may have heated the vessel. Be that as it may, one glowing Saturday evening, on being hailed by the lumbering bottle-green ship, the Tug instantly came working out of the Dock in a highly heated condition.

“Mr. Pancks,” was the Patriarchal remark, “you have been remiss, you have been remiss, sir.”

“What do you mean by that?” was the short rejoinder.

The Patriarchal state, always a state of calmness and composure, was so particularly serene that evening as to be provoking. Everybody else within the bills of mortality was hot; but the Patriarch was perfectly cool. Everybody was thirsty, and the Patriarch was drinking. There was a fragrance of limes or lemons about him; and he made a drink of golden sherry, which shone in a large tumbler as if he were drinking the evening sunshine. This was bad, but not the worst. The worst was, that with his big blue eyes, and his polished head, and his long white hair, and his bottle-green legs stretched out before him, terminating in his easy shoes easily crossed at the instep, he had a radiant appearance of having in his extensive benevolence made the drink for the human species, while he himself wanted nothing but his own milk of human kindness.

Wherefore, Mr. Pancks said, “What do you mean by that?” and put his hair up with both hands, in a highly portentous manner.

“I mean, Mr. Pancks, that you must be sharper with the people, sharper with the people, much sharper with the people, sir. You don’t squeeze them. You don’t squeeze them. Your receipts are not up to the mark. You must squeeze them, sir, or our connection will not continue to be as satisfactory as I could wish it to be to all parties. All parties.”

“Don’t I squeeze ’em?” retorted Mr. Pancks. “What else am I made for?”

“You are made for nothing else, Mr. Pancks. You are made to do your duty, but you don’t do your duty. You are paid to squeeze, and you must squeeze to pay.” The Patriarch so much surprised himself by this brilliant turn, after Dr. Johnson, which he had not in the least expected or intended, that he laughed aloud; and repeated with great satisfaction, as he twirled his thumbs and nodded at his youthful portrait, “Paid to squeeze, sir, and must squeeze to pay.”

“Oh,” said Pancks. “Anything more?”

“Yes, sir, yes, sir. Something more. You will please, Mr. Pancks, to squeeze the Yard again, the first thing on Monday morning.”

“Oh!” said Pancks. “Ain’t that too soon? I squeezed it dry today.”

“Nonsense, sir. Not near the mark, not near the mark.”

“Oh!” said Pancks, watching him as he benevolently gulped down a good draught of his mixture. “Anything more?”

“Yes, sir, yes, sir, something more. I am not at all pleased, Mr. Pancks, with my daughter; not at all pleased. Besides calling much too often to inquire for Mrs. Clennam, Mrs. Clennam, who is not just now in circumstances that are by any means calculated to⁠—to be satisfactory to all parties, she goes, Mr. Pancks, unless I am much deceived, to inquire for Mr. Clennam in jail. In jail.”

“He’s laid up, you know,” said Pancks. “Perhaps it’s kind.”

“Pooh, pooh, Mr. Pancks. She has nothing to do with that, nothing to do with that. I can’t allow it. Let him pay his debts and come out, come out; pay his debts, and come out.”

Although Mr. Pancks’s hair was standing up like strong wire, he gave it another double-handed impulse in the perpendicular direction, and smiled at his proprietor in a most hideous manner.

“You will please to mention to my daughter, Mr. Pancks, that I can’t allow it, can’t allow it,” said the Patriarch blandly.

“Oh!” said Pancks. “You couldn’t mention it yourself?”

“No, sir, no; you are paid to mention it,” the blundering old booby could not resist the temptation of trying it again, “and you must mention it to pay, mention it to pay.”

“Oh!” said Pancks. “Anything more?”

“Yes, sir. It appears to me, Mr. Pancks, that you yourself are too often and too much in that direction, that direction. I recommend you, Mr. Pancks, to dismiss from your attention both your own losses and other people’s losses, and to mind your business, mind your business.”

Mr. Pancks acknowledged this recommendation with such an extraordinarily abrupt, short, and loud utterance of the monosyllable “Oh!” that even the unwieldy Patriarch moved his blue eyes in something of a hurry, to look at him. Mr. Pancks, with a sniff of corresponding intensity, then added, “Anything more?”

“Not at present, sir, not at present. I am going,” said the Patriarch, finishing his mixture, and rising with an amiable air, “to take a little stroll, a little stroll. Perhaps I shall find you here when I come back. If not, sir, duty, duty; squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, on Monday; squeeze on Monday!”

Mr. Pancks, after another stiffening of his hair, looked on at the Patriarchal assumption of the broad-brimmed hat, with a momentary appearance of indecision contending with a sense of injury. He was also hotter than at first, and breathed harder. But he suffered Mr. Casby to go out, without offering any further remark, and then took a peep at him over the little green window-blinds. “I thought so,” he observed. “I knew where you were bound to. Good!” He then steamed back to his Dock, put it carefully in order, took down his hat, looked round the Dock, said “Goodbye!” and puffed away on his own account. He steered straight