The tidings of my high fortunes having had a heavy
fall, had got down to my native place and its neighbourhood,
before I got there. I found the Blue Boar in
possession of the intelligence, and I found that it
made a great change in the Boar’s demeanour.
Whereas the Boar had cultivated my good opinion with
warm assiduity when I was coming into property, the
Boar was exceedingly cool on the subject now that
I was going out of property.
It was evening when I arrived, much fatigued by the
journey I had so often made so easily. The Boar
could not put me into my usual bedroom, which was
engaged (probably by some one who had expectations),
and could only assign me a very indifferent chamber
among the pigeons and post-chaises up the yard.
But, I had as sound a sleep in that lodging as in
the most superior accommodation the Boar could have
given me, and the quality of my dreams was about the
same as in the best bedroom.
Early in the morning while my breakfast was getting
ready, I strolled round by Satis House. There
were printed bills on the gate, and on bits of carpet
hanging out of the windows, announcing a sale by auction
of the Household Furniture and Effects, next week.
The House itself was to be sold as old building materials
and pulled down. Lot 1 was marked in whitewashed
knock-knee letters on the brew house; lot 2 on
that part of the main building which had been so long
shut up. Other lots were marked off on other
parts of the structure, and the ivy had been torn
down to make room for the inscriptions, and much of
it trailed low in the dust and was withered already.
Stepping in for a moment at the open gate and looking
around me with the uncomfortable air of a stranger
who had no business there, I saw the auctioneer’s
clerk walking on the casks and telling them off for
the information of a catalogue compiler, pen in hand,
who made a temporary desk of the wheeled chair I had
so often pushed along to the tune of Old Clem.
When I got back to my breakfast in the Boar’s
coffee-room, I found Mr. Pumblechook conversing with
the landlord. Mr. Pumblechook (not improved
in appearance by his late nocturnal adventure) was
waiting for me, and addressed me in the following
terms.
“Young man, I am sorry to see you brought low.
But what else could be expected! What else
could be expected!”
As he extended his hand with a magnificently forgiving
air, and as I was broken by illness and unfit to quarrel,
I took it.
“William,” said Mr. Pumblechook to the
waiter, “put a muffin on table. And has
it come to this! Has it come to this!”
I frowningly sat down to my breakfast. Mr. Pumblechook
stood over me and poured out my tea — before
I could touch the teapot — with the air of a
benefactor who was resolved to be true to the last.
“William,” said Mr. Pumblechook, mournfully,
“put the salt on. In happier times,”
addressing me, “I think you took sugar.
And did you take milk? You did. Sugar
and milk. William, bring a watercress.”
