Tommy and Grizel

O.P. Pym, the colossal Pym, that vast and rolling figure, who never knew what he was to writeabout until he dipped grandly, an author in such demand that on the foggy evening which starts ourstory his publishers have had his boots removed lest he slip thoughtlessly round the corner beforehis work is done, as was the great man's way--shall we begin with him, or with Tommy, who hasjust arrived in London, carrying his little box and leading a lady by the hand? It was Pym, as we areabout...
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O.P. Pym, the colossal Pym, that vast and rolling figure, who never knew what he was to writeabout until he dipped grandly, an author in such demand that on the foggy evening which starts ourstory his publishers have had his boots removed lest he slip thoughtlessly round the corner beforehis work is done, as was the great man's way--shall we begin with him, or with Tommy, who hasjust arrived in London, carrying his little box and leading a lady by the hand? It was Pym, as we areabout to see, who in the beginning held Tommy up to the public gaze, Pym who first noticed hisremarkable indifference to female society, Pym who gave him----But alack! does no one rememberPym for himself? Is the king of the Penny Number already no more than a button that once upon atime kept Tommy's person together? And we are at the night when they first met! Let us hasten intoMarylebone before little Tommy arrives and Pym is swallowed like an oyster.This is the house, 22 Little Owlet Street, Marylebone, but which were his rooms it is less easy todetermine, for he was a lodger who flitted placidly from floor to floor according to the state of hisfinances, carrying his apparel and other belongings in one great armful, and spilling by the way. Onthis particular evening he was on the second floor front, which had a fireplace in the corner,furniture all his landlady's and mostly horsehair, little to suggest his calling save a noble saucerful ofink, and nothing to draw attention from Pym, who lolled, gross and massive, on a sofa, one leg overthe back of it, the other drooping, his arms extended, and his pipe, which he could find nowhere,thrust between the buttons of his waistcoat, an agreeable pipe-rack. He wore a yellow dressinggown, or could scarcely be said to wear it, for such of it as was not round his neck he had convertedinto a cushion for his head, which is perhaps the part of him we should have turned to first It was abig round head, the plentiful gray hair in tangles, possibly because in Pym's last flitting the comb haddropped over the banisters; the features were ugly and beyond life-size, yet the forehead had alteredlittle except in colour since the day when he was near being made a fellow of his college; there wassensitiveness left in the thick nose, humour in the eyes, though they so often watered; the face hadgone to flabbiness at last, but not without some lines and dents, as if the head had resisted the bodyfor a space before the whole man rolled contentedly downhill.