Mr. Pickwick seized the watch in triumph, and proceeded to
retrace his steps to his bedchamber. If his progress downward had
been attended with difficulties and uncertainty, his journey back
was infinitely more perplexing. Rows of doors, garnished with
boots of every shape, make, and size, branched off in every
possible direction. A dozen times did he softly turn the handle of
some bedroom door which resembled his own, when a gruff cry
from within of 'Who the devil's that?' or 'What do you want
here?' caused him to steal away, on tiptoe, with a perfectly
marvellous celerity. He was reduced to the verge of despair, when
an open door attracted his attention. He peeped in. Right at last!
There were the two beds, whose situation he perfectly remembered,
and the fire still burning. His candle, not a long one when he
first received it, had flickered away in the drafts of air through
which he had passed and sank into the socket as he closed the
door after him. 'No matter,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I can undress
myself just as well by the light of the fire.'
The bedsteads stood one on each side of the door; and on the
inner side of each was a little path, terminating in a rush-
bottomed chair, just wide enough to admit of a person's getting
into or out of bed, on that side, if he or she thought proper.
Pages:
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562