Mudfog and Other Sketches | Page 4

Mudfog, in which he
said that he cheerfully complied with their requisition, and, in short, as
if to prevent any mistake about the matter, told them over again what a
grand fellow he meant to be, in very much the same terms as those in

which he had already told them all about the matter in his letter.
The corporation stared at one another very hard at all this, and then
looked as if for explanation to the tall postilion, but as the tall postilion
was intently contemplating the gold tassel on the top of his yellow cap,
and could have afforded no explanation whatever, even if his thoughts
had been entirely disengaged, they contented themselves with coughing
very dubiously, and looking very grave. The tall postilion then
delivered another letter, in which Nicholas Tulrumble informed the
corporation, that he intended repairing to the town-hall, in grand state
and gorgeous procession, on the Monday afternoon next ensuing. At
this the corporation looked still more solemn; but, as the epistle wound
up with a formal invitation to the whole body to dine with the Mayor
on that day, at Mudfog Hall, Mudfog Hill, Mudfog, they began to see
the fun of the thing directly, and sent back their compliments, and
they'd be sure to come.
Now there happened to be in Mudfog, as somehow or other there does
happen to be, in almost every town in the British dominions, and
perhaps in foreign dominions too--we think it very likely, but, being no
great traveller, cannot distinctly say--there happened to be, in Mudfog,
a merry-tempered, pleasant-faced, good-for-nothing sort of vagabond,
with an invincible dislike to manual labour, and an unconquerable
attachment to strong beer and spirits, whom everybody knew, and
nobody, except his wife, took the trouble to quarrel with, who inherited
from his ancestors the appellation of Edward Twigger, and rejoiced in
the sobriquet of Bottle-nosed Ned. He was drunk upon the average
once a day, and penitent upon an equally fair calculation once a month;
and when he was penitent, he was invariably in the very last stage of
maudlin intoxication. He was a ragged, roving, roaring kind of fellow,
with a burly form, a sharp wit, and a ready head, and could turn his
hand to anything when he chose to do it. He was by no means opposed
to hard labour on principle, for he would work away at a cricket-match
by the day together,--running, and catching, and batting, and bowling,
and revelling in toil which would exhaust a galley-slave. He would
have been invaluable to a fire-office; never was a man with such a
natural taste for pumping engines, running up ladders, and throwing
furniture out of two-pair-of-stairs' windows: nor was this the only
element in which he was at home; he was a humane society in himself,

a portable drag, an animated life-preserver, and had saved more people,
in his time, from drowning, than the Plymouth life- boat, or Captain
Manby's apparatus. With all these qualifications, notwithstanding his
dissipation, Bottle-nosed Ned was a general favourite; and the
authorities of Mudfog, remembering his numerous services to the
population, allowed him in return to get drunk in his own way, without
the fear of stocks, fine, or imprisonment. He had a general licence, and
he showed his sense of the compliment by making the most of it.
We have been thus particular in describing the character and avocations
of Bottle-nosed Ned, because it enables us to introduce a fact politely,
without hauling it into the reader's presence with indecent haste by the
head and shoulders, and brings us very naturally to relate, that on the
very same evening on which Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble and family
returned to Mudfog, Mr. Tulrumble's new secretary, just imported from
London, with a pale face and light whiskers, thrust his head down to
the very bottom of his neckcloth-tie, in at the tap-room door of the
Lighterman's Arms, and inquiring whether one Ned Twigger was
luxuriating within, announced himself as the bearer of a message from
Nicholas Tulrumble, Esquire, requiring Mr. Twigger's immediate
attendance at the hall, on private and particular business. It being by no
means Mr. Twigger's interest to affront the Mayor, he rose from the
fireplace with a slight sigh, and followed the light-whiskered secretary
through the dirt and wet of Mudfog streets, up to Mudfog Hall, without
further ado.
Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was seated in a small cavern with a skylight,
which he called his library, sketching out a plan of the procession on a
large sheet of paper; and into the cavern the secretary ushered Ned
Twigger.
'Well, Twigger!' said Nicholas Tulrumble, condescendingly.
There was a time when Twigger would have replied, 'Well, Nick!' but
that was in the days of the truck, and a couple of years before the