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Elisha Cuthbert Photos Books: Martin Eden The Pickwick Papers The Sea Wolf |
that would have held the baggage of a
small army; but what struck Toms fancy most was a strange,
grim-looking, high backed chair, carved in the most fantastic
manner, with a flowered damask cushion, and the round knobs
at the bottom of the legs carefully tied up in red cloth, as if it
had got the gout in its toes. Of any other queer chair, Tom would
only have thought it was a queer chair, and there would have
been an end of the matter; but there was something about this
particular chair, and yet he couldnt tell what it was, so odd and
so unlike any other piece of furniture he had ever seen, that it
seemed to fascinate him. He sat down before the fire, and stared
at the old chair for half an hour.--Damn the chair, it was such
a strange old thing, he couldnt take his eyes off it.
"Well," said Tom, slowly undressing himself, and staring at
the old chair all the while, which stood with a mysterious aspect
by the bedside, "I never saw such a rum concern as that in my
days. Very odd," said Tom, who had got rather sage with the hot
punch--very odd." Tom shook his head with an air of profound
wisdom, and looked at the chair again. He couldnt make
anything of it though, so he got into bed, covered himself up
warm, and fell asleep.
In about half an hour, Tom woke up with a start, from a
confused dream of tall men and tumblers of punch; and the first
object that presented itself to his waking imagination was the
queer chair.
"I wont look at it any more," said Tom to himself, and he
squeezed his eyelids together, and tried to persuade himself he
was going to sleep again. No use; nothing but queer chairs
danced before his eyes, kicking up their legs, jumping over each
others backs, and playing all kinds of antics.
"I may as well see one real chair, as two or three complete
sets of false ones," said Tom, bringing out his head from under
the bedclothes. There it was, plainly discernible by the light of
the fire, looking as provoking as ever.
Tom gazed at the chair; and, suddenly as he looked at it, a
most extraordinary change seemed to come over it. The carving
of the back gradually assumed the lineaments and expression of
an old, shrivelled human face; the damask cushion became an
antique, flapped waistcoat; the round knobs grew into a couple
of feet, encased in red cloth slippers; and the whole chair looked
like a very ugly old man, of the previous century, with his arms
akimbo. Tom sat up in bed, and rubbed his eyes to dispel the
illusion. No. The chair was an ugly old gentleman; and what
was more, he was winking at Tom Smart.
Tom was naturally a headlong, careless sort of dog, and he
had had five tumblers of hot punch into the bargain; so, although
he was a little startled at first, he began to grow rather indignant
when he saw the old gentleman winking and leering at him with
such an impudent air. At length he resolved that he wouldnt
stand it; and as the old face still kept winking away as fast as
ever, Tom said, in a very angry tone--
"What the devil are you winking at me for?"
"Because I like it, Tom Smart," said the chair; or the old
gentleman, whichever you like to call him. He stopped winking
though, when Tom spoke, and began grinning like a
superannuated monkey.
"How do you know my name, old nut-cracker face?"
inquired Tom Smart, rather staggered; though he pretended to
carry it off so well.
"Come, come, Tom," said the old gentleman, "thats not the
way to address solid Spanish mahogany. Damme, you couldnt
treat me with less respect if I was veneered." When the old
gentleman said this, he looked so fierce that Tom began to
grow frightened.
"I didnt mean to treat you with any disrespect, Sir," said
Tom, in a much humbler tone than he had spoken in at first.
"Well, well," said the old fellow, "perhaps not--perhaps
not. Tom--"
"sir--"
"I know everything about you, Tom; everything. Youre
very poor, Tom."
"I certainly am," said Tom Smart. "But how came you to
know that?"
"Never mind that," said the old gentleman; "youre much
too fond of punch, Tom."
Tom Smart was just on the point of protesting that he hadnt
tasted a The Pickwick Papers page 89 The Pickwick Papers page 91 |