Mr. Pickwick did not quite understand the last item of description, but, comprehending the first, said "Yes" at a venture.
"T'other's a black-haired chap in mulberry livery, with wery large head?"
"Yes, yes, he is," said Mr. Pickwick and Sam, with great earnestness.
"Then I know where they are, and that's all about it," said Mr. Weller; "they're at Ipswich, safe enough, them two."
"No!" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Fact," said Mr. Weller, "and I'll tell you how I know it. I work an Ipswich coach now and then for a friend o' mine. I worked down the wery day arter the night as you caught the rheumatiz, and at the Black Boy at Chelmsford—the wery place they'd come to—I took 'em up, right through to Ipswich, where the man servant—him in the mulberries—told me they was a goin' to put up for a long time."
"I'll follow him," said Mr. Pickwick; "we may as well see Ipswich as any other place. I'll follow him."
"You're quite certain it was them, governor?" inquired Mr. Weller, junior.
"Quite, Sammy, quite," replied his father, replied his father, "for their appearance is wery sing'ler; besides that 'ere, I wondered to see the gen'lm'n so formiliar with his servant; and, more than that, as they sat in front, right behind the box, I heerd 'em laughing, and saying how they'd done old Fireworks."
"Old who?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Old Fireworks, sir; by which, I've no doubt, they meant you, sir."
There is nothing positively vile or atrocious in the appellation of "old Fireworks," but still it is by no means a respectful or flattering designation. The recollection of all the wrongs he had sustained at Jingle's hands had crowded on Mr. Pickwick's mind, the moment Mr. Weller began to speak it wanted but a feather to turn the scale, and "old Fireworks" did it.
