The tobacco business round the corner of Horsemonger Lane was carried
out in a rural establishment one story high, which had the benefit of
the air from the yards of Horsemonger Lane jail, and the advantage of a
retired walk under the wall of that pleasant establishment. The business
was of too modest a character to support a life-size Highlander, but it
maintained a little one on a bracket on the door-post, who looked like
a fallen Cherub that had found it necessary to take to a kilt. From the
portal thus decorated, one Sunday after an early dinner of baked viands,
Young John issued forth on his usual Sunday errand; not empty-handed,
but with his offering of cigars. He was neatly attired in a
plum-coloured coat, with as large a collar of black velvet as his figure
could carry; a silken waistcoat, bedecked with golden sprigs; a chaste
neckerchief much in vogue at that day, representing a preserve of
lilac pheasants on a buff ground; pantaloons so highly decorated with
side-stripes that each leg was a three-stringed lute; and a hat of
state very high and hard.
When the prudent Mrs Chivery perceived that
in addition to these adornments her John carried a pair of white kid
gloves, and a cane like a little finger-post, surmounted by an ivory
hand marshalling him the way that he should go; and when she saw him, in
this heavy marching order, turn the corner to the right; she remarked to
Mr Chivery, who was at home at the time, that she thought she knew which
way the wind blew.
The Collegians were entertaining a considerable number of visitors that
Sunday afternoon, and their Father kept his room for the purpose of
receiving presentations. After making the tour of the yard, Little
Dorrit's lover with a hurried heart went up-stairs, and knocked with his
knuckles at the Father's door. 'Come in, come in!' said a gracious voice.
The Father's voice, her
father's, the Marshalsea's father's. He was seated in his black velvet
cap, with his newspaper, three-and-sixpence accidentally left on the
table, and two chairs arranged. Everything prepared for holding his
Court. 'Ah, Young John! How do you do, how do you do!'
'Pretty well, I thank you, sir. I hope you are the same.' 'Yes, John Chivery; yes. Nothing to complain of.' 'I have taken the liberty, sir, of--'
'Eh?' The Father of the Marshalsea always lifted up his eyebrows at this
point, and became amiably distraught and smilingly absent in mind. '--
A few cigars, sir.' 'Oh!' (For the moment, excessively surprised.) 'Thank you, Young John,
thank you. But really, I am afraid I am too--No? Well then, I will say
no more about it. Put them on the mantelshelf, if you please, Young
John. And sit down, sit down. You are not a stranger, John.'