ree sets of dancers. Two card-tables
were made up in the adjoining card-room, and two
pair of old ladies, and a corresponding number of
old gentlemen, were executing whist therein."

A very little stretch of the imagination carries us back sixty years,
and, _presto!_ the ball-room stands before us, with the wax candles
lighted, and the room filled with the _elite_ of Chatham and Rochester
society, who, acting on the principle of "that general benevolence which
was one of the leading features of the Pickwickian theory," had given
their support to that "ball for the benefit of a charity," then being
held there, and which was attended by Mr. Tracy Tupman, in his new
dress-coat with the P. C. button and bust of Mr. Pickwick in the centre,
and by Mr. Jingle, in the borrowed garments of the same nature belonging
to Mr. Winkle.

"P. C.," said the stranger.--"Queer set out--old fellow's likeness and
'P. C.'--What does 'P. C.' stand for? 'Peculiar Coat,' eh?" Imagine the
"rising indignation" and impatience of Mr. Tupman, as with "great
importance" he explains the mystic device!

[Illustration: The "Elevated Den" in the Ball Room: ("Bull" Inn)]

Everybody remembers how, declining the usual introduction, the two
entered the ball-room _incog._, as "Gentlemen from London--distinguished
foreigners--anything;" how Mr. Jingle said in reply to Mr. Tupman's
remark, "Wait a minute--fun presently--nobs not come yet--queer
place--Dock-yard people of upper rank don't know Dock-yard people of
lower rank--Dock-yard people of lower rank don't know small
gentry--small gentry don't know tradespeople--Commissioner don't know
anybody."

The "man at the door,"--the local M.C.,--announces the arrivals.

"Sir Thomas Clubber, Lady Clubber, and the Miss Clubbers!"
"Commissioner--head of the yard--great man--remarkably great man,"
whispers the stranger in Mr. Tupman's ear.

"Colonel Bulder, Mrs. Colonel Bulder, and Miss Bulder," are announced.
"Head of the garrison," says Mr. Jingle. "They exchanged snuff-boxes
[how old-fashioned it appears to us who don't take snuff], and looked
very much like a pair of Alexander Selkirks--Monarchs of all they
surveyed."

More arrivals are announced, and dancing begins in earnest; but the most
interesting one to us is Dr. Slammer--"a little fat man, with a ring of
upright black hair round his head, and an extensive bald plain on the
top of it--Dr. Slammer, surgeon to the 97th, who