To have a boy, or not to have a
boy, which to do became an anxious question. "A boy is a spy," muttered Todd to himself--"a spy upon all my
actions--a perpetual police-officer in a small way, constantly at my
elbow--an alarum continually crying to me 'Todd! Todd! beware!' Curses
on them all, and yet what a slave am I to this place without a lad; and,
after all, when they do become too troublesome and inquisitive, I can
but dispose of them as I have disposed of him." Todd patrolled his shop for some time, thus communing with himself; but
as yet he could not make up his mind which to do.--A boy or not a
boy?--that was the question. He remained in this unsatisfactory state of
mind until sunset had passed away and the dim twilight was wrapping all
things in obscurity. Then, without deciding upon either course, he
suddenly, in a very hurried manner, shut up his shop, and closing the
outer door carefully, he walked rapidly towards Bell Yard. He was going
to Mrs. Lovett's, whither we shall follow him at a more convenient
opportunity, but just now we have Sir Richard Blunt's enterprise to
treat of. Todd had no sooner got fairly out of sight, than Mr. Crotchet
emerged from the doorway in which he was concealed, and went a few paces
down Fleet Street, towards the Temple.--He soon met a man genteelly
dressed, who seemed to be sauntering along in an idle fashion. "All's right, Fletcher," said Crotchet. "Oh, is it?" "Yes. Have you got that ere little article with you?" "The bugle? Oh, yes." "Mind you blows it then, if you sees Todd come home, and no gammon." "Trust to me old fellow." Without another word, Mr. Crotchet crossed over the road, and opened the
shop-door of the shoemaker. Now the face of Mr. Crotchet was not the
most engaging in the world, and when he looked in upon the shoemaker,
that industrious workman felt a momentary pang of alarm, and
particularly when Mr. Crotchet, imparting a horrible obliquity to his
vision, said--

"How is yer, old un?" "Sir?" said the shoemaker. "You couldn't show a fellow the way up to Smith's _hattic_, I supposes?" "Smith--Smith?--Oh, dear me, that's the new lodger. I'll call him down
if you wait here." "No occasion. I'll toddle up, my tulip. He's a relation o' mine, don't
you see the likeness atween us?--We was considered the handsomest pair
'o men as was in London at one time, and it sticks to us now, I can tell
you." "If you wish, sir, to go up, instead of having Mr. Smith called down, of
course, sir, you can, as you are an old friend. Allow me to light you,
sir." "Not the least occasion. Only tell me where it isn't, and I'll find out
where it is, old chap." "It's the front attic." "All's right. Don't be sich a hass as to be flaring away arter me, with
that ere double dip, I can find my way in _worserer_ places than this
here. All's right--easy does it." To the surprise of the shoemaker, his mysterious visitor opened the
little door at the back of the shop, which led to the staircase, and in
a moment disappeared up them. "Upon my life, this Mr. Smith," thought the shoemaker, "seems to have
some very strange connexions. He told me he knew nobody in London, and
then here comes one of the ugliest fellows, I think, I ever saw in all
my life, and claims acquaintance with him. What ought I to do?--Ought I
to tell Mrs. W. of it?" At this moment Mrs. W. made her appearance from the mercer's, with the
ribbon that had tickled her feminine fancy--all smiles and sweetness. The heart of the shoemaker died within him, for well he knew what
visitation he was likely to come in for, if anything connected with the
lodger turned out wrong. "A-hem! a-hem! Well, my dear, have you got the ribbon?" "Oh yes, to be sure, and a love it is--"

"Ah!--ah!" "What's the matter?" "Nothing, my dove. I was only thinking that it wasn't the ribbon that
makes folks look lovely, but the person who wears it. You would look
beautiful in any ribbon." "Why, my dear, that may be very true, but still one ought to look as
well as one can, you know, for the credit of one's maker." "Oh, yes, yes, but I was only thinking--"

"Thinking of what? Bless me, Mr. Wheeler, how mystifying you are
to-night, to be sure. What do you mean by this conduct? Was ever a woman
so pestered and tormented with a fool of a man, who looks like an owl in
an ivy bush for all the world, or a crow peeping into a marrowbone." "My duck, how can you say so?" "Duck indeed? Keep your ducks to yourself. Hoity toity. Duck, indeed. You low good-for-nothing--"

"My dear, my dear. I was only thinking, and not in the least wishing to
offend." "But you do offend me, you nasty insinuating, sneering wretch.--What
were you thinking about? Tell me this moment." "Why, that a pretty silver-grey satin mantle would set off your figure
so well, that--"

"Oh, John!" "That, though quarter-day is near at hand, I think you ought to have
one." "Really, Jackey." "Yes, my dear." "What a man you are. Ah, Jackey, after all, though we have, like all
people, our little tiffs and wiffs and sniffs--after all, I say it,
perhaps, that should not say it, you are a dear, good, obliging--"

"Don't mention it." "Yes, but--"

"No, don't. By-the-bye, do you know, Susey, that I begin to have my
suspicions--mind, I may be wrong, but I begin to have my suspicions, do
you know, that our attic lodger is, after all, no better than he should
be." "Gracious!" "Hush! hush! There has been a man here; so ugly--so--so--squintified, if
I may say so, that between you and me and the post, my dear, it's enough
to frighten any one to look at him, it is indeed.--But as for the
silver-grey satin, don't stint the quality for a sixpence or so." "The wretch!" "And take care to have plenty of rich trimming to it." "The monster!" "And have something pretty to match it, so that when you go to St.
Dunstan's next Sunday, all the folks will ask what fine lady from court
has come into the city out of curiosity to see the old church." "Oh, Jackey." "That's what I call," muttered Mr. Wheeler, "pouring oil upon the
troubled waters." He then spoke aloud, saying--"Now, my dear, it is your
judgment and advice I want. What shall we do in this case? for you
see--first of all, the new lodger denies knowing a soul, and then, in
half an hour, an old acquaintance calls upon him here." The silver-grey satin--the flattering allusion to the probable opinion
of the people in St. Dunstan's Church on the next Sunday--the obscure
allusion to a something else to match it, and the appeal to her
judgment, all had the effect desired upon Mrs. Wheeler, who, dropping
entirely the hectoring tone, fell into her husband's views, and began
calmly and dispassionately, without abuse or crimination, to discuss the
merits, or rather the probable demerits, of the new lodger. "I tell you, my dear, my opinion," said the lady. "As for stopping in
the house and not knowing who and what he is, I won't." "Certainly not, my love."