Mr. Squod tacks out, all on one side, to execute the word of command; and the trooper, having smoked his pipe, lays it by. Jo is brought in. He is not one of Mrs. Pardiggle's Tockahoopo Indians; he is not one of Mrs. Jellyby's lambs, being wholly unconnected with Borrioboola-Gha; he is not softened by distance and unfamiliarity; he is not a genuine foreign-grown savage; he is the ordinary home-made article. Dirty, ugly, disagreeable to all the senses, in body a common creature of the common streets, only in soul a heathen. Homely filth begrimes him, homely parasites devour him, homely sores are in him, homely rags are on him; native ignorance, the growth of English soil and climate, sinks his immortal nature lower than the beasts that perish. Stand forth, Jo, in uncompromising colours! From the sole of thy foot to the crown of thy head, there is nothing interesting about thee.

Mr. Squod tacks out on one side to do so; and Jo is brought in. He is not one of Mrs. Jellyby's lambs of Borrioboola-Gha; he is not softened by distance and unfamiliarity; he is the ordinary home-made article. Dirty, ugly, disagreeable to all the senses; homely filth begrimes him, homely parasites devour him, homely rags are on him; native ignorance sinks his immortal nature lower than the beasts.


He shuffles slowly into Mr. George's gallery and stands huddled together in a bundle, looking all about the floor. He seems to know that they have an inclination to shrink from him, partly for what he is and partly for what he has caused. He, too, shrinks from them. He is not of the same order of things, not of the same place in creation. He is of no order and no place, neither of the beasts nor of humanity.
"Look here, Jo!" says Allan. "This is Mr. George."
Jo searches the floor for some time longer, then looks up for a moment, and then down again.
"He is a kind friend to you, for he is going to give you lodging room here."

He shuffles slowly into Mr. George's gallery and stands huddled, looking all about the floor. He seems to know that they have an inclination to shrink from him, partly for what he is and partly for what he has caused. He, too, shrinks from them. He is not of the same order of things, not of the same place in creation. He is of no order and no place, neither of the beasts nor of humanity.
"Look here, Jo!" says Allan. "This is Mr. George."
Jo looks up for a moment, and then down again.
"He is a kind friend to you, for he is going to give you lodging room here."


Jo makes a scoop with one hand, which is supposed to be a bow. After a little more consideration and some backing and changing of the foot on which he rests, he mutters that he is "wery thankful."
"You are quite safe here. All you have to do at present is to be obedient and to get strong. And mind you tell us the truth here, whatever you do, Jo."
"Wishermaydie if I don't, sir," says Jo, reverting to his favourite declaration. "I never done nothink yit, but wot you knows on, to get myself into no trouble. I never was in no other trouble at all, sir, 'sept not knowin' nothink and starwation."
"I believe it, now attend to Mr. George. I see he is going to speak to you."

Jo makes a scoop with one hand, which is supposed to be a bow. After some backing and changing of the foot on which he rests, he mutters that he is "wery thankful."
"You are quite safe here. All you have to do at present is to get strong. And mind you tell us the truth here, Jo."
"Wishermaydie if I don't, sir," says Jo. "I never was in no trouble at all, sir, 'sept not knowin' nothink and starwation."


"My intention merely was, sir," observes Mr. George, amazingly broad and upright, "to point out to him where he can lie down and get a thorough good dose of sleep. Now, look here." As the trooper speaks, he conducts them to the other end of the gallery and opens one of the little cabins. "There you are, you see! Here is a mattress, and here you may rest, on good behaviour, as long as Mr., I ask your pardon, sir"--he refers apologetically to the card Allan has given him--"Mr. Woodcourt pleases. Don't you be alarmed if you hear shots; they'll be aimed at the target, and not you. Now, there's another thing I would recommend, sir," says the trooper, turning to his visitor. "Phil, come here!"

"Look here," says Mr. George. He leads them to the other end of the gallery and opens one of the little cabins. "Here is a mattress, and here you may rest. Don't you be alarmed if you hear shots; they'll be aimed at the target, and not you. Now, there's another thing I would recommend, sir," says the trooper, turning to his visitor. "Phil, come here!"


Phil bears down upon them according to his usual tactics. "Here is a man, sir, who was found, when a baby, in the gutter. Consequently, it is to be expected that he takes a natural interest in this poor creature. You do, don't you, Phil?"
"Certainly and surely I do, guv'ner," is Phil's reply.
"Now I was thinking, sir," says Mr. George in a martial sort of confidence, as if he were giving his opinion in a council of war at a drum-head, "that if this man was to take him to a bath and was to lay out a few shillings in getting him one or two coarse articles--"
"Mr. George, my considerate friend," returns Allan, taking out his purse, "it is the very favour I would have asked."
Phil Squod and Jo are sent out immediately on this work of improvement. Miss Flite, quite enraptured by her success, makes the best of her way to court, having great fears that otherwise her friend the Chancellor may be uneasy about her or may give the judgment she has so long expected in her absence, and observing "which you know, my dear physician, and general, after so many years, would be too absurdly unfortunate!" Allan takes the opportunity of going out to procure some restorative medicines, and obtaining them near at hand, soon returns to find the trooper walking up and down the gallery, and to fall into step and walk with him.

Phil bears down upon them in his usual manner. "Here is a man, sir, who was found, when a baby, in the gutter. Consequently, he takes a natural interest in this poor creature, don't you, Phil?"
"Certainly, guv'ner," is Phil's reply.
"Now I was thinking, sir," says Mr. George, "that if this man was to take him to a bath and was to lay out a few shillings in getting him some clothing-"
"Mr. George," returns Allan, taking out his purse, "it is the very favour I would have asked."
Phil Squod and Jo are sent out immediately on this work of improvement. Miss Flite, quite enraptured by her success, returns to her court, having great fears that her friend the Chancellor may give the judgment she has so long expected in her absence. Allan goes out to buy some medicines, and returns to find the trooper walking up and down the gallery. Falling into step, he walks with him.


"I take it, sir," says Mr. George, "that you know Miss Summerson pretty well?"
Yes, it appears.
"Not related to her, sir?"
No, it appears.
"Excuse the apparent curiosity," says Mr. George. "It seemed to me probable that you might take more than a common interest in this poor creature because Miss Summerson had taken that unfortunate interest in him. 'Tis MY case, sir, I assure you."
"And mine, Mr. George."
The trooper looks sideways at Allan's sunburnt cheek and bright dark eye, rapidly measures his height and build, and seems to approve of him.

"I take it, sir," says Mr. George, "that you know Miss Summerson pretty well?"
"Yes."
"Excuse the curiosity," says Mr. George. "I thought you might take an interest in this poor creature because Miss Summerson had taken an interest in him. 'Tis my case, sir, I assure you."
"And mine, Mr. George."
The trooper looks sideways at Allan's sunburnt cheek and bright dark eye, and seems to approve of him.


"Since you have been out, sir, I have been thinking that I unquestionably know the rooms in Lincoln's Inn Fields, where Bucket took the lad, according to his account. Though he is not acquainted with the name, I can help you to it. It's Tulkinghorn. That's what it is."
Allan looks at him inquiringly, repeating the name.
"Tulkinghorn. That's the name, sir. I know the man, and know him to have been in communication with Bucket before, respecting a deceased person who had given him offence. I know the man, sir. To my sorrow."

"Since you have been out, sir, I have been thinking that I know the rooms in Lincoln's Inn Fields, where Bucket took the lad, according to his account. It's Tulkinghorn. That's the name, sir. I know the man, sir. To my sorrow."


Allan naturally asks what kind of man he is.
"What kind of man! Do you mean to look at?"
"I think I know that much of him. I mean to deal with. Generally, what kind of man?"


"Why, then I'll tell you, sir," returns the trooper, stopping short and folding his arms on his square chest so angrily that his face fires and flushes all over; "he is a confoundedly bad kind of man. He is a slow-torturing kind of man. He is no more like flesh and blood than a rusty old carbine is. He is a kind of man--by George!--that has caused me more restlessness, and more uneasiness, and more dissatisfaction with myself than all other men put together. That's the kind of man Mr. Tulkinghorn is!"
"I am sorry," says Allan, "to have touched so sore a place."

The trooper folds his arms on his square chest so angrily that his face flushes all over. "He is a confoundedly bad kind of man. A slow-torturing kind of man. He is no more like flesh and blood than a rusty old carbine is. He has caused me more restlessness and uneasiness and dissatisfaction with myself than all other men put together!"
"I am sorry," says Allan, "to have touched so sore a place."


"Sore?" The trooper plants his legs wider apart, wets the palm of his broad right hand, and lays it on the imaginary moustache. "It's no fault of yours, sir; but you shall judge. He has got a power over me. He is the man I spoke of just now as being able to tumble me out of this place neck and crop. He keeps me on a constant see-saw. He won't hold off, and he won't come on. If I have a payment to make him, or time to ask him for, or anything to go to him about, he don't see me, don't hear me--passes me on to Melchisedech's in Clifford's Inn, Melchisedech's in Clifford's Inn passes me back again to him--he keeps me prowling and dangling about him as if I was made of the same stone as himself. Why, I spend half my life now, pretty well, loitering and dodging about his door. What does he care?

"Sore?" The trooper plants his legs wider apart. "You shall judge, sir. He has got a power over me. He is the man I spoke of just now as being able to tumble me out of this place. He keeps me on a constant see-saw. If I have a payment to make him, he don't see me - passes me on to Melchisedech's in Clifford's Inn. Melchisedech's passes me back again to him. Why, I spend half my life now loitering and dodging about his door. What does he care?


Nothing. Just as much as the rusty old carbine I have compared him to. He chafes and goads me till--Bah! Nonsense! I am forgetting myself. Mr. Woodcourt," the trooper resumes his march, "all I say is, he is an old man; but I am glad I shall never have the chance of setting spurs to my horse and riding at him in a fair field. For if I had that chance, in one of the humours he drives me into--he'd go down, sir!"
Mr. George has been so excited that he finds it necessary to wipe his forehead on his shirt-sleeve. Even while he whistles his impetuosity away with the national anthem, some involuntary shakings of his head and heavings of his chest still linger behind, not to mention an occasional hasty adjustment with both hands of his open shirt-collar, as if it were scarcely open enough to prevent his being troubled by a choking sensation. In short, Allan Woodcourt has not much doubt about the going down of Mr. Tulkinghorn on the field referred to.

Nothing. He chafes and goads me till - Bah! I am forgetting myself. Mr. Woodcourt," says the trooper; "but I am glad I shall never have the chance of setting spurs to my horse and riding at him in a fair field. For if I had that chance - he'd go down, sir!"
Mr. George wipes his forehead on his shirt-sleeve, and whistles his impetuosity away with the national anthem, but some shakings of his head and heavings of his chest still linger. Allan Woodcourt has not much doubt about the going down of Mr. Tulkinghorn on the field referred to.


Jo and his conductor presently return, and Jo is assisted to his mattress by the careful Phil, to whom, after due administration of medicine by his own hands, Allan confides all needful means and instructions. The morning is by this time getting on apace. He repairs to his lodgings to dress and breakfast, and then, without seeking rest, goes away to Mr. Jarndyce to communicate his discovery.
With him Mr. Jarndyce returns alone, confidentially telling him that there are reasons for keeping this matter very quiet indeed and showing a serious interest in it. To Mr. Jarndyce, Jo repeats in substance what he said in the morning, without any material variation. Only that cart of his is heavier to draw, and draws with a hollower sound.
"Let me lay here quiet and not be chivied no more," falters Jo, "and be so kind any person as is a-passin nigh where I used fur to sleep, as jist to say to Mr. Sangsby that Jo, wot he known once, is a-moving on right forards with his duty, and I'll be wery thankful. I'd be more thankful than I am aready if it wos any ways possible for an unfortnet to be it."
He makes so many of these references to the law-stationer in the course of a day or two that Allan, after conferring with Mr. Jarndyce, good-naturedly resolves to call in Cook's Court, the rather, as the cart seems to be breaking down.

Jo and Phil presently return, and the careful Phil helps Jo to his bed. To him Allan confides all needful instructions. Then he repairs to his lodgings to dress and breakfast, and without seeking rest, goes away to Mr. Jarndyce to communicate his discovery.
Mr. Jarndyce returns with him, confidentially telling him that there are reasons for keeping this matter very quiet. To Mr. Jarndyce, Jo repeats what he said in the morning, without any variation. Only that cart of his is heavier to draw, and draws with a hollower sound.
"Let me lay here quiet and not be chivied no more," falters Jo, "and be so kind as jist to say to Mr. Sangsby that Jo, wot he known once, is a-moving on right forards with his duty, and I'll be wery thankful."
He makes so many of these references to the law-stationer over a day or two that Allan, after conferring with Mr. Jarndyce, good-naturedly resolves to call in Cook's Court.


To Cook's Court, therefore, he repairs. Mr. Snagsby is behind his counter in his grey coat and sleeves, inspecting an indenture of several skins which has just come in from the engrosser's, an immense desert of law-hand and parchment, with here and there a resting-place of a few large letters to break the awful monotony and save the traveller from despair. Mr Snagsby puts up at one of these inky wells and greets the stranger with his cough of general preparation for business.
"You don't remember me, Mr. Snagsby?"
The stationer's heart begins to thump heavily, for his old apprehensions have never abated. It is as much as he can do to answer, "No, sir, I can't say I do. I should have considered--not to put too fine a point upon it--that I never saw you before, sir."
"Twice before," says Allan Woodcourt. "Once at a poor bedside, and once--"

At Cook's Court he finds Mr. Snagsby behind his counter in his grey coat and sleeves, inspecting an immense desert of parchment. Mr. Snagsby greets the stranger with his cough of business.
"You don't remember me, Mr. Snagsby?"
The stationer's heart begins to thump heavily. It is all he can do to answer, "No, sir, I can't say I do. I don't think that I ever saw you before, sir."
"Twice before," says Allan Woodcourt. "Once at a poor bedside, and once-"


"It's come at last!" thinks the afflicted stationer, as recollection breaks upon him. "It's got to a head now and is going to burst!" But he has sufficient presence of mind to conduct his visitor into the little counting-house and to shut the door.
"Are you a married man, sir?"
"No, I am not."
"Would you make the attempt, though single," says Mr. Snagsby in a melancholy whisper, "to speak as low as you can? For my little woman is a-listening somewheres, or I'll forfeit the business and five hundred pound!"

"It's come at last!" thinks the afflicted stationer, as recollection breaks upon him. But he has sufficient presence of mind to conduct his visitor into the little counting-house and to shut the door.
"Would you make the attempt," says Mr. Snagsby in a melancholy whisper, "to speak as low as you can? For my little woman is a-listening somewheres!


In deep dejection Mr. Snagsby sits down on his stool, with his back against his desk, protesting, "I never had a secret of my own, sir. I can't charge my memory with ever having once attempted to deceive my little woman on my own account since she named the day. I wouldn't have done it, sir. Not to put too fine a point upon it, I couldn't have done it, I dursn't have done it. Whereas, and nevertheless, I find myself wrapped round with secrecy and mystery, till my life is a burden to me."
His visitor professes his regret to hear it and asks him does he remember Jo. Mr. Snagsby answers with a suppressed groan, oh, don't he!
"You couldn't name an individual human being--except myself--that my little woman is more set and determined against than Jo," says Mr. Snagsby.
Allan asks why.

I never had a secret of my own, sir. I have never once attempted to deceive my little woman since she named the day. I couldn't have done it. Whereas, nevertheless, I find myself wrapped round with secrecy and mystery, till my life is a burden to me."
His visitor professes his regret to hear it and asks him does he remember Jo. Mr. Snagsby answers with a suppressed groan, oh, don't he!
"You couldn't name a human being - except myself - that my little woman is more set against than Jo," says Mr. Snagsby.
Allan asks why.


"Why?" repeats Mr. Snagsby, in his desperation clutching at the clump of hair at the back of his bald head. "How should I know why? But you are a single person, sir, and may you long be spared to ask a married person such a question!"
With this beneficent wish, Mr. Snagsby coughs a cough of dismal resignation and submits himself to hear what the visitor has to communicate.


"There again!" says Mr. Snagsby, who, between the earnestness of his feelings and the suppressed tones of his voice is discoloured in the face. "At it again, in a new direction! A certain person charges me, in the solemnest way, not to talk of Jo to any one, even my little woman. Then comes another certain person, in the person of yourself, and charges me, in an equally solemn way, not to mention Jo to that other certain person above all other persons. Why, this is a private asylum! Why, not to put too fine a point upon it, this is Bedlam, sir!" says Mr. Snagsby.

A certain person charges me, in the solemnest way, not to talk of Jo to anyone, even my little woman. Then comes another certain person, in the person of yourself, and charges me, in an equally solemn way, not to mention Jo to that other certain person. Why, this is Bedlam, sir!" says Mr. Snagsby.


But it is better than he expected after all, being no explosion of the mine below him or deepening of the pit into which he has fallen. And being tender-hearted and affected by the account he hears of Jo's condition, he readily engages to "look round" as early in the evening as he can manage it quietly. He looks round very quietly when the evening comes, but it may turn out that Mrs. Snagsby is as quiet a manager as he.
Jo is very glad to see his old friend and says, when they are left alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should come so far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Snagsby, touched by the spectacle before him, immediately lays upon the table half a crown, that magic balsam of his for all kinds of wounds.
"And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?" inquires the stationer with his cough of sympathy.

But being tender-hearted and affected by the account he hears of Jo's condition, he readily engages to call round early in the evening if he can manage it quietly. He calls round when the evening comes, but it may turn out that Mrs. Snagsby is as quiet a manager as he.
Jo is very glad to see his old friend and says it is uncommon kind of Mr. Sangsby to come so far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Snagsby, touched, immediately lays upon the table half a crown, that magic balsam of his for all kinds of wounds.
"And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?" inquires the stationer.


"I am in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," returns Jo, "and don't want for nothink. I'm more cumfbler nor you can't think. Mr. Sangsby! I'm wery sorry that I done it, but I didn't go fur to do it, sir."
The stationer softly lays down another half-crown and asks him what it is that he is sorry for having done.

"I am in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," returns Jo, "and don't want for nothink. I'm more cumfbler nor you can't think. Mr. Sangsby! I'm wery sorry that I done it, but I didn't go fur to do it, sir."
The stationer softly lays down another half-crown and asks him what he is sorry for having done.


"Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, "I went and giv a illness to the lady as wos and yit as warn't the t'other lady, and none of 'em never says nothink to me for having done it, on accounts of their being ser good and my having been s'unfortnet. The lady come herself and see me yesday, and she ses, 'Ah, Jo!' she ses. 'We thought we'd lost you, Jo!' she ses. And she sits down a-smilin so quiet, and don't pass a word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, she don't, and I turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him a-forced to turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, he come fur to giv me somethink fur to ease me, wot he's allus a-doin' on day and night, and wen he come a-bending over me and a-speakin up so bold, I see his tears a-fallin, Mr. Sangsby."
The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table. Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy will relieve his feelings.

"Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, "I went and giv a illness to the lady as wos and yit as warn't the t'other lady, and none of 'em never says nothink to me for having done it, on accounts of their being ser good. The lady come herself and see me yesday, and she ses, 'Ah, Jo! We thought we'd lost you, Jo!' she ses. And she sits down a-smilin so quiet, and don't pass a word upon me for having done it, she don't, and I turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him a-forced to turn away hisself. And Mr. Woodcot, he come fur to giv me somethink fur to ease me, wot he's allus a-doin' day and night, and wen he come a-bending over me, I see his tears a-fallin, Mr. Sangsby."
The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table.


"Wot I was a-thinkin on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, "wos, as you wos able to write wery large, p'raps?"
"Yes, Jo, please God," returns the stationer.
"Uncommon precious large, p'raps?" says Jo with eagerness.
"Yes, my poor boy."
Jo laughs with pleasure. "Wot I wos a-thinking on then, Mr. Sangsby, wos, that when I wos moved on as fur as ever I could go and couldn't be moved no furder, whether you might be so good p'raps as to write out, wery large so that any one could see it anywheres, as that I wos wery truly hearty sorry that I done it and that I never went fur to do it, and that though I didn't know nothink at all, I knowd as Mr. Woodcot once cried over it and wos allus grieved over it, and that I hoped as he'd be able to forgive me in his mind. If the writin could be made to say it wery large, he might."
"It shall say it, Jo. Very large."

"Wot I was a-thinkin on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, "wos, as you wos able to write wery large, p'raps?"
"Yes, Jo," returns the stationer.
Jo laughs with pleasure. "Wot I wos a-thinking then, Mr. Sangsby, wos, that when I wos moved on as fur as ever I could, whether you might be so good p'raps as to write out, wery large so that anyone could see it anywheres, as that I wos wery truly hearty sorry that I done it and that I never went fur to do it, and that though I didn't know nothink at all, I knowd as Mr. Woodcot wos allus grieved over it, and that I hoped as he'd be able to forgive me. If the writin could be made to say it wery large, he might."
"It shall say it, Jo. Very large."


Jo laughs again. "Thankee, Mr. Sangsby. It's wery kind of you, sir, and it makes me more cumfbler nor I was afore."
The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough, slips down his fourth half-crown--he has never been so close to a case requiring so many--and is fain to depart. And Jo and he, upon this little earth, shall meet no more. No more.
For the cart so hard to draw is near its journey's end and drags over stony ground. All round the clock it labours up the broken steps, shattered and worn. Not many times can the sun rise and behold it still upon its weary road.

Jo laughs again. "Thankee, Mr. Sangsby. It's wery kind of you, sir, and it makes me more cumfbler nor I was afore."
The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough, slips down his fourth half-crown - and departs. And Jo and he, upon this little earth, shall meet no more.
For the cart so hard to draw is near its journey's end and drags over stony ground. It labours up the broken steps, shattered and worn. Not many times can the sun rise and behold it still upon its weary road.


Phil Squod, with his smoky gunpowder visage, at once acts as nurse and works as armourer at his little table in a corner, often looking round and saying with a nod of his green-baize cap and an encouraging elevation of his one eyebrow, "Hold up, my boy! Hold up!" There, too, is Mr. Jarndyce many a time, and Allan Woodcourt almost always, both thinking, much, how strangely fate has entangled this rough outcast in the web of very different lives. There, too, the trooper is a frequent visitor, filling the doorway with his athletic figure and, from his superfluity of life and strength, seeming to shed down temporary vigour upon Jo, who never fails to speak more robustly in answer to his cheerful words.
Jo is in a sleep or in a stupor to-day, and Allan Woodcourt, newly arrived, stands by him, looking down upon his wasted form. After a while he softly seats himself upon the bedside with his face towards him--just as he sat in the law-writer's room--and touches his chest and heart. The cart had very nearly given up, but labours on a little more.

Phil Squod, with his smoky gunpowder visage, both acts as nurse and works as armourer at his little table in a corner, often looking round and saying with a nod of his green-baize cap, "Hold up, my boy! Hold up!"
There, too, is Mr. Jarndyce many a time, and Allan Woodcourt almost always, both thinking how strangely fate has entangled this rough outcast in the web of very different lives. The trooper is a frequent visitor, filling the doorway with his athletic figure and seeming to shed down temporary vigour upon Jo, who never fails to speak more robustly in answer to his cheerful words.
Jo is in a sleep or in a stupor today, and Allan Woodcourt, newly arrived, stands by him, looking down upon his wasted form. After a while he softly sits upon the bedside and touches his chest and heart. The cart has very nearly given up, but labours on a little more.


The trooper stands in the doorway, still and silent. Phil has stopped in a low clinking noise, with his little hammer in his hand. Mr. Woodcourt looks round with that grave professional interest and attention on his face, and glancing significantly at the trooper, signs to Phil to carry his table out. When the little hammer is next used, there will be a speck of rust upon it.
"Well, Jo! What is the matter? Don't be frightened."
"I thought," says Jo, who has started and is looking round, "I thought I was in Tom-all-Alone's agin. Ain't there nobody here but you, Mr. Woodcot?"
"Nobody."

The trooper stands in the doorway, still and silent. Phil has stopped with his hammer in his hand. Mr. Woodcourt looks round, and glancing significantly at the trooper, signs to Phil to carry his table out. When the hammer is next used, there will be a speck of rust upon it.
"Well, Jo! What is the matter? Don't be frightened."
"I thought," says Jo, who has started and is looking round, "I thought I was in Tom-all-Alone's agin. Ain't there nobody here but you, Mr. Woodcot?"
"Nobody."


"And I ain't took back to Tom-all-Alone's. Am I, sir?"
"No." Jo closes his eyes, muttering, "I'm wery thankful."
After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth very near his ear and says to him in a low, distinct voice, "Jo! Did you ever know a prayer?"
"Never knowd nothink, sir."
"Not so much as one short prayer?"

"And I ain't took back to Tom-all-Alone's. Am I, sir?"
"No."
Jo closes his eyes, muttering, "I'm wery thankful."
After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth very near his ear and says low to him, "Jo! Did you ever know a prayer?"
"Never knowd nothink, sir.


"No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a-prayin wunst at Mr. Sangsby's and I heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos a-speakin to hisself, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but I couldn't make out nothink on it. Different times there was other genlmen come down Tom-all-Alone's a-prayin, but they all mostly sed as the t'other 'wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be a-talking to theirselves, or a-passing blame on the t'others, and not a-talkin to us. WE never knowd nothink. I never knowd what it wos all about."
It takes him a long time to say this, and few but an experienced and attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand him. After a short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a strong effort to get out of bed.

Mr. Chadband he wos a-prayin wunst at Mr. Sangsby's, but he sounded as if he wos a-speakin to hisself, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but I couldn't make out nothink on it. I never knowd what it wos all about."
It takes him a long time to say this. After a short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes a sudden, strong effort to get out of bed.


"Stay, Jo! What now?"
"It's time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir," he returns with a wild look.
"Lie down, and tell me. What burying ground, Jo?"
"Where they laid him as wos wery good to me, wery good to me indeed, he wos. It's time fur me to go down to that there berryin ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go there and be berried. He used fur to say to me, 'I am as poor as you to-day, Jo,' he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him now and have come there to be laid along with him."

"Stay, Jo! What now?"
"It's time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir," he returns with a wild look.
"Lie down, and tell me. What burying ground, Jo?"
"Where they laid him as wos wery good to me, wery good to me indeed, he wos. It's time fur me to go down to that there berryin ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. He used fur to say to me, 'I am as poor as you today, Jo,' he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him now and have come there to be laid along with him."


"By and by, Jo. By and by."
"Ah! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I wos to go myself. But will you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him?"
"I will, indeed."

"By and by, Jo. By and by."
"Ah! Will you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him?"
"I will, indeed."


"Thankee, sir. Thankee, sir. They'll have to get the key of the gate afore they can take me in, for it's allus locked. And there's a step there, as I used for to clean with my broom. It's turned wery dark, sir. Is there any light a-comin?"
"It is coming fast, Jo."
Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very near its end.
"Jo, my poor fellow!"

"Thankee, sir. They'll have to get the key of the gate, for it's allus locked. And there's a step there, as I used for to clean with my broom. It's turned wery dark, sir. Is there any light a-comin?"
"It is coming fast, Jo."
Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very near its end.
"Jo, my poor fellow!"


"I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a-gropin--a-gropin--let me catch hold of your hand."
"Jo, can you say what I say?"
"I'll say anythink as you say, sir, for I knows it's good."
"Our Father."
"Our Father! Yes, that's wery good, sir."
"Which art in heaven."
"Art in heaven--is the light a-comin, sir?"
"It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy name!"

"I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a-gropin - a-gropin - let me catch hold of your hand."
"Jo, can you say what I say?"
"I'll say anythink as you say, sir, for I knows it's good."
"Our Father."
"Our Father! Yes, that's wery good, sir."
"Which art in heaven."
"Art in heaven - is the light a-comin, sir?"
"It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy name!"


"Hallowed be--thy--"
The light is come upon the dark benighted way. Dead!
Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, right reverends and wrong reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day.

"Hallowed be - thy-"
The light is come.
Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, right reverends and wrong reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day.


Although the morning was raw, and although the fog still seemed heavy--I say seemed, for the windows were so encrusted with dirt that they would have made midsummer sunshine dim--I was sufficiently forewarned of the discomfort within doors at that early hour and sufficiently curious about London to think it a good idea on the part of Miss Jellyby when she proposed that we should go out for a walk.
"Ma won't be down for ever so long," she said, "and then it's a chance if breakfast's ready for an hour afterwards, they dawdle so. As to Pa, he gets what he can and goes to the office. He never has what you would call a regular breakfast. Priscilla leaves him out the loaf and some milk, when there is any, overnight. Sometimes there isn't any milk, and sometimes the cat drinks it. But I'm afraid you must be tired, Miss Summerson, and perhaps you would rather go to bed."
"I am not at all tired, my dear," said I, "and would much prefer to go out."
"If you're sure you would," returned Miss Jellyby, "I'll get my things on."

Although the morning was raw, and although the fog still seemed heavy beyond the dirt-encrusted windows, I was curious enough about London to agree when Miss Jellyby proposed that we should go out for a walk.
"Ma won't be down for ever so long," she said, "and then breakfast won't be ready for an hour afterwards, they dawdle so. Pa gets what he can and goes to the office. He never has what you would call a regular breakfast."


Ada said she would go too, and was soon astir. I made a proposal to Peepy, in default of being able to do anything better for him, that he should let me wash him and afterwards lay him down on my bed again. To this he submitted with the best grace possible, staring at me during the whole operation as if he never had been, and never could again be, so astonished in his life--looking very miserable also, certainly, but making no complaint, and going snugly to sleep as soon as it was over. At first I was in two minds about taking such a liberty, but I soon reflected that nobody in the house was likely to notice it.

Ada said she would go out too. I suggested to Peepy that he should let me wash him and afterwards lay him down on my bed again. To this he submitted, looking astonished and miserable at the washing, certainly, but making no complaint, and going snugly to sleep as soon as it was over.


What with the bustle of dispatching Peepy and the bustle of getting myself ready and helping Ada, I was soon quite in a glow. We found Miss Jellyby trying to warm herself at the fire in the writing-room, which Priscilla was then lighting with a smutty parlour candlestick, throwing the candle in to make it burn better. Everything was just as we had left it last night and was evidently intended to remain so. Below-stairs the dinner-cloth had not been taken away, but had been left ready for breakfast. Crumbs, dust, and waste-paper were all over the house. Some pewter pots and a milk-can hung on the area railings; the door stood open; and we met the cook round the corner coming out of a public-house, wiping her mouth. She mentioned, as she passed us, that she had been to see what o'clock it was.

Ada and I found Miss Jellyby trying to warm herself at the fire in the writing-room, where everything was just as we had left it last night. Crumbs, dust, and waste-paper were all over the house. Some pewter pots and a milk-can hung on the area railings; the door stood open; and we met the cook round the corner coming out of a public-house, wiping her mouth.


But before we met the cook, we met Richard, who was dancing up and down Thavies Inn to warm his feet. He was agreeably surprised to see us stirring so soon and said he would gladly share our walk. So he took care of Ada, and Miss Jellyby and I went first. I may mention that Miss Jellyby had relapsed into her sulky manner and that I really should not have thought she liked me much unless she had told me so.
"Where would you wish to go?" she asked.
"Anywhere, my dear," I replied.
"Anywhere's nowhere," said Miss Jellyby, stopping perversely.
"Let us go somewhere at any rate," said I.
She then walked me on very fast.

But before we met the cook, we met Richard, who was agreeably surprised to see us and said he would gladly share our walk. So he took care of Ada, and Miss Jellyby and I went first. Miss Jellyby had relapsed into her sulky manner.
"Where would you wish to go?" she asked.
"Anywhere, my dear," I replied.
"Anywhere's nowhere," said Miss Jellyby, stopping.
"Let us go somewhere at any rate," said I.
She then walked on very fast.


"I don't care!" she said. "Now, you are my witness, Miss Summerson, I say I don't care--but if he was to come to our house with his great, shining, lumpy forehead night after night till he was as old as Methuselah, I wouldn't have anything to say to him. Such ASSES as he and Ma make of themselves!"
"My dear!" I remonstrated, in allusion to the epithet and the vigorous emphasis Miss Jellyby set upon it. "Your duty as a child--"

"I don't care!" she said. "If he was to come to our house with his great, shining, lumpy forehead night after night till he was as old as Methuselah, I wouldn't have anything to say to him. Such asses as he and Ma make of themselves!"
"My dear!" I remonstrated. "Your duty as a child-"


"Oh! Don't talk of duty as a child, Miss Summerson; where's Ma's duty as a parent? All made over to the public and Africa, I suppose! Then let the public and Africa show duty as a child; it's much more their affair than mine. You are shocked, I dare say! Very well, so am I shocked too; so we are both shocked, and there's an end of it!"
She walked me on faster yet.

"Oh! Don't talk of that, Miss Summerson; where's Ma's duty as a parent? All made over to the public and Africa, I suppose! You are shocked, I dare say! Very well, so am I; we are both shocked, and there's an end of it!"
She walked on faster yet.


"But for all that, I say again, he may come, and come, and come, and I won't have anything to say to him. I can't bear him. If there's any stuff in the world that I hate and detest, it's the stuff he and Ma talk. I wonder the very paving-stones opposite our house can have the patience to stay there and be a witness of such inconsistencies and contradictions as all that sounding nonsense, and Ma's management!"
I could not but understand her to refer to Mr. Quale, the young gentleman who had appeared after dinner yesterday. I was saved the disagreeable necessity of pursuing the subject by Richard and Ada coming up at a round pace, laughing and asking us if we meant to run a race. Thus interrupted, Miss Jellyby became silent and walked moodily on at my side while I admired the long successions and varieties of streets, the quantity of people already going to and fro, the number of vehicles passing and repassing, the busy preparations in the setting forth of shop windows and the sweeping out of shops, and the extraordinary creatures in rags secretly groping among the swept-out rubbish for pins and other refuse.
"So, cousin," said the cheerful voice of Richard to Ada behind me. "We are never to get out of Chancery! We have come by another way to our place of meeting yesterday, and--by the Great Seal, here's the old lady again!"

"But for all that, he may come, and come, and come, and I won't have anything to say to him. I can't bear him. I hate the stuff he and Ma talk. It's all such nonsense!"
I understood her to refer to Mr. Quale, the young gentleman who had appeared after dinner yesterday. Richard and Ada came up, laughing and asking us if we meant to run a race. Thus interrupted, Miss Jellyby became silent and walked moodily at my side while I admired the streets and the people going to and fro, the number of vehicles passing, the sweeping out of shops, and the extraordinary creatures in rags secretly groping among the swept-out rubbish.
"So, cousin," said the cheerful voice of Richard behind me, "we are never to get out of Chancery! We have come to it by another way, and - by the Great Seal, here's the old lady again!"


Truly, there she was, immediately in front of us, curtsying, and smiling, and saying with her yesterday's air of patronage, "The wards in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy, I am sure!"
"You are out early, ma'am," said I as she curtsied to me.
"Ye-es! I usually walk here early. Before the court sits. It's retired. I collect my thoughts here for the business of the day," said the old lady mincingly. "The business of the day requires a great deal of thought. Chancery justice is so ve-ry difficult to follow."

Truly, there she was, curtsying and smiling, and saying, "The wards in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy, I am sure!"
"You are out early, ma'am," said I.
"Yes! I usually walk here early. Before the court sits. I collect my thoughts here for the business of the day," said the old lady mincingly. "The business of the day requires a great deal of thought."


"Who's this, Miss Summerson?" whispered Miss Jellyby, drawing my arm tighter through her own.
The little old lady's hearing was remarkably quick. She answered for herself directly.
"A suitor, my child. At your service. I have the honour to attend court regularly. With my documents. Have I the pleasure of addressing another of the youthful parties in Jarndyce?" said the old lady, recovering herself, with her head on one side, from a very low curtsy.

"Who's this, Miss Summerson?" whispered Miss Jellyby.
The little old lady heard, and answered for herself.
"A suitor, my child. At your service. I have the honour to attend court regularly. With my documents. Have I the pleasure of addressing another of the youthful parties in Jarndyce?" said the old lady, with her head on one side.


Richard, anxious to atone for his thoughtlessness of yesterday, good-naturedly explained that Miss Jellyby was not connected with the suit.

Richard good-naturedly explained that Miss Jellyby was not connected with the suit.


"Ha!" said the old lady. "She does not expect a judgment? She will still grow old. But not so old. Oh, dear, no! This is the garden of Lincoln's Inn. I call it my garden. It is quite a bower in the summer-time. Where the birds sing melodiously.

"Ha!" said the old lady. "She does not expect a judgment? She will still grow old. But not so old. Oh, dear, no! This is the garden of Lincoln's Inn. I call it my garden. It is quite a bower in the summer-time. Where the birds sing.


I pass the greater part of the long vacation here. In contemplation. You find the long vacation exceedingly long, don't you?"
We said yes, as she seemed to expect us to say so.
"When the leaves are falling from the trees and there are no more flowers in bloom to make up into nosegays for the Lord Chancellor's court," said the old lady, "the vacation is fulfilled and the sixth seal, mentioned in the Revelations, again prevails. Pray come and see my lodging. It will be a good omen for me. Youth, and hope, and beauty are very seldom there. It is a long, long time since I had a visit from either."

I pass the greater part of the long vacation here. You find the long vacation exceedingly long, don't you?"
We said yes, as she seemed to expect it.
"When the leaves are falling from the trees," said the old lady, "the vacation is fulfilled and the sixth seal, mentioned in the Revelations, again prevails. Pray come and see my lodging. It will be a good omen for me. Youth, and hope, and beauty very seldom visit."


She had taken my hand, and leading me and Miss Jellyby away, beckoned Richard and Ada to come too. I did not know how to excuse myself and looked to Richard for aid. As he was half amused and half curious and all in doubt how to get rid of the old lady without offence, she continued to lead us away, and he and Ada continued to follow, our strange conductress informing us all the time, with much smiling condescension, that she lived close by.
It was quite true, as it soon appeared. She lived so close by that we had not time to have done humouring her for a few moments before she was at home. Slipping us out at a little side gate, the old lady stopped most unexpectedly in a narrow back street, part of some courts and lanes immediately outside the wall of the inn, and said, "This is my lodging. Pray walk up!"

She had taken my hand, and was leading me and Miss Jellyby away. I did not know how to excuse myself and looked to Richard for aid. As he was half amused and half curious, he and Ada followed us.
The old lady lived close by, in a narrow back street.
"This is my lodging. Pray walk up!"


She had stopped at a shop over which was written KROOK, RAG AND BOTTLE WAREHOUSE. Also, in long thin letters, KROOK, DEALER IN MARINE STORES. In one part of the window was a picture of a red paper mill at which a cart was unloading a quantity of sacks of old rags. In another was the inscription BONES BOUGHT. In another, KITCHEN-STUFF BOUGHT. In another, OLD IRON BOUGHT. In another, WASTE-PAPER BOUGHT. In another, LADIES' AND GENTLEMEN'S WARDROBES BOUGHT. Everything seemed to be bought and nothing to be sold there. In all parts of the window were quantities of dirty bottles--blacking bottles, medicine bottles, ginger-beer and soda-water bottles, pickle bottles, wine bottles, ink bottles; I am reminded by mentioning the latter that the shop had in several little particulars the air of being in a legal neighbourhood and of being, as it were, a dirty hanger-on and disowned relation of the law.

She had stopped at a shop over which was written KROOK, RAG AND BOTTLE WAREHOUSE. Also, in long thin letters, KROOK, DEALER IN MARINE STORES. In one part of the window was the inscription BONES BOUGHT. In another, KITCHEN-STUFF BOUGHT. In another, OLD IRON BOUGHT. In another, WASTE-PAPER BOUGHT. In another, LADIES' AND GENTLEMEN'S WARDROBES BOUGHT. Everything seemed to be bought and nothing to be sold there.
In all parts of the window were quantities of dirty bottles - medicine bottles, ginger-beer and soda-water bottles, pickle bottles, wine bottles, and a great many ink bottles. The shop had the air of being a disowned relation of the law.


There were a great many ink bottles. There was a little tottering bench of shabby old volumes outside the door, labelled "Law Books, all at 9d." Some of the inscriptions I have enumerated were written in law-hand, like the papers I had seen in Kenge and Carboy's office and the letters I had so long received from the firm. Among them was one, in the same writing, having nothing to do with the business of the shop, but announcing that a respectable man aged forty-five wanted engrossing or copying to execute with neatness and dispatch: Address to Nemo, care of Mr. Krook, within. There were several second-hand bags, blue and red, hanging up. A little way within the shop-door lay heaps of old crackled parchment scrolls and discoloured and dog's-eared law-papers. I could have fancied that all the rusty keys, of which there must have been hundreds huddled together as old iron, had once belonged to doors of rooms or strong chests in lawyers' offices. The litter of rags tumbled partly into and partly out of a one-legged wooden scale, hanging without any counterpoise from a beam, might have been counsellors' bands and gowns torn up. One had only to fancy, as Richard whispered to Ada and me while we all stood looking in, that yonder bones in a corner, piled together and picked very clean, were the bones of clients, to make the picture complete.

There was a little tottering bench of shabby old volumes outside the door, labelled "Law Books, 9d." Some of the inscriptions were written in law-hand, like the letters I had received from Kenge and Carboy's office. One notice in the same writing announced that a respectable man aged forty-five wanted copying jobs, to execute with neatness and dispatch: Address to Nemo, care of Mr. Krook, within.
A little way inside the shop-door lay heaps of old cracked parchment scrolls, dog-eared law-papers and a litter of rags. One had only to fancy, as Richard whispered to Ada, that yonder bones in a corner, piled together and picked very clean, were the bones of clients, to make the picture complete.


As it was still foggy and dark, and as the shop was blinded besides by the wall of Lincoln's Inn, intercepting the light within a couple of yards, we should not have seen so much but for a lighted lantern that an old man in spectacles and a hairy cap was carrying about in the shop. Turning towards the door, he now caught sight of us. He was short, cadaverous, and withered, with his head sunk sideways between his shoulders and the breath issuing in visible smoke from his mouth as if he were on fire within. His throat, chin, and eyebrows were so frosted with white hairs and so gnarled with veins and puckered skin that he looked from his breast upward like some old root in a fall of snow.
"Hi, hi!" said the old man, coming to the door. "Have you anything to sell?"

We could only see all this by a lantern carried by an old man in the shop, in spectacles and a hairy cap. He was short, cadaverous, and withered, with his head sunk sideways between his shoulders and the breath issuing in visible smoke from his mouth as if he were on fire within. His puckered throat and chin were so frosted with white hairs that he looked like some old root in a fall of snow.
"Hi, hi!" said the old man, coming to the door. "Have you anything to sell?"


We naturally drew back and glanced at our conductress, who had been trying to open the house-door with a key she had taken from her pocket, and to whom Richard now said that as we had had the pleasure of seeing where she lived, we would leave her, being pressed for time. But she was not to be so easily left. She became so fantastically and pressingly earnest in her entreaties that we would walk up and see her apartment for an instant, and was so bent, in her harmless way, on leading me in, as part of the good omen she desired, that I (whatever the others might do) saw nothing for it but to comply. I suppose we were all more or less curious; at any rate, when the old man added his persuasions to hers and said, "Aye, aye! Please her! It won't take a minute! Come in, come in! Come in through the shop if t'other door's out of order!" we all went in, stimulated by Richard's laughing encouragement and relying on his protection.

We naturally drew back and glanced at the old lady, who had been trying to open the house-door with a key. She became so pressingly earnest in her entreaties that we would walk up and see her apartment, that I saw nothing for it but to comply. I suppose we were all curious; at any rate, when the old man said, "Aye, aye! Please her! It won't take a minute!" we all went in, stimulated by Richard's laughing encouragement and relying on his protection.


"My landlord, Krook," said the little old lady, condescending to him from her lofty station as she presented him to us. "He is called among the neighbours the Lord Chancellor. His shop is called the Court of Chancery. He is a very eccentric person. He is very odd. Oh, I assure you he is very odd!"
She shook her head a great many times and tapped her forehead with her finger to express to us that we must have the goodness to excuse him, "For he is a little--you know--M!" said the old lady with great stateliness. The old man overheard, and laughed.

"My landlord, Krook," said the little old lady. "He is called among the neighbours the Lord Chancellor. His shop is called the Court of Chancery. He is a very eccentric person. Oh, very odd!"
She shook her head and tapped her forehead with her finger. "For he is a little - you know - M!" The old man overheard, and laughed.


"It's true enough," he said, going before us with the lantern, "that they call me the Lord Chancellor and call my shop Chancery. And why do you think they call me the Lord Chancellor and my shop Chancery?"
"I don't know, I am sure!" said Richard rather carelessly.
"You see," said the old man, stopping and turning round, "they--Hi! Here's lovely hair! I have got three sacks of ladies' hair below, but none so beautiful and fine as this. What colour, and what texture!"

"It's true enough," he said, going before us with the lantern, "that they call me the Lord Chancellor and call my shop Chancery. And why do you think that is?"
"I don't know, I am sure!" said Richard carelessly.
"You see," said the old man, stopping and turning round, "they - Hi! Here's lovely hair! I have got three sacks of ladies' hair below, but none so beautiful as this!"


"That'll do, my good friend!" said Richard, strongly disapproving of his having drawn one of Ada's tresses through his yellow hand. "You can admire as the rest of us do without taking that liberty."
The old man darted at him a sudden look which even called my attention from Ada, who, startled and blushing, was so remarkably beautiful that she seemed to fix the wandering attention of the little old lady herself. But as Ada interposed and laughingly said she could only feel proud of such genuine admiration, Mr. Krook shrunk into his former self as suddenly as he had leaped out of it.

"That'll do, my good friend!" said Richard, strongly disapproving of his having drawn one of Ada's tresses through his yellow hand. The old man darted him a sudden startling look.
But Ada, blushing, interposed and laughingly said she could only feel proud of such admiration. Mr. Krook shrunk into his former self as suddenly as he had leaped out of it.


"You see, I have so many things here," he resumed, holding up the lantern, "of so many kinds, and all as the neighbours think (but THEY know nothing), wasting away and going to rack and ruin, that that's why they have given me and my place a christening. And I have so many old parchmentses and papers in my stock. And I have a liking for rust and must and cobwebs. And all's fish that comes to my net. And I can't abear to part with anything I once lay hold of (or so my neighbours think, but what do THEY know?) or to alter anything, or to have any sweeping, nor scouring, nor cleaning, nor repairing going on about me. That's the way I've got the ill name of Chancery. I don't mind. I go to see my noble and learned brother pretty well every day, when he sits in the Inn. He don't notice me, but I notice him.

"You see, I have so many things here," he resumed, "that the neighbours have given me and my place a christening. I have a liking for rust and cobwebs. And all's fish that comes to my net. I can't abear to part with anything I once lay hold of, or to have any sweeping or cleaning. That's how I've got the name of Chancery. I don't mind. I go to see my noble and learned brother pretty well every day, when he sits in the Inn. He don't notice me, but I notice him.


There's no great odds betwixt us. We both grub on in a muddle. Hi, Lady Jane!"
A large grey cat leaped from some neighbouring shelf on his shoulder and startled us all.
"Hi! Show 'em how you scratch. Hi! Tear, my lady!" said her master.
The cat leaped down and ripped at a bundle of rags with her tigerish claws, with a sound that it set my teeth on edge to hear.

Hi, Lady Jane!"
A large grey cat leaped from a shelf on to his shoulder and startled us all.
"Hi! Show 'em how you scratch, my lady!" said her master.
The cat leaped down and ripped at a bundle of rags with her tigerish claws.


"She'd do as much for any one I was to set her on," said the old man. "I deal in cat-skins among other general matters, and hers was offered to me. It's a very fine skin, as you may see, but I didn't have it stripped off! THAT warn't like Chancery practice though, says you!"
He had by this time led us across the shop, and now opened a door in the back part of it, leading to the house-entry. As he stood with his hand upon the lock, the little old lady graciously observed to him before passing out, "That will do, Krook. You mean well, but are tiresome. My young friends are pressed for time. I have none to spare myself, having to attend court very soon. My young friends are the wards in Jarndyce."

"She'd do as much for anyone I was to set her on," said the old man. He had by this time led us across the shop, and now opened a door at the back. The little old lady graciously observed,
"That will do, Krook. You mean well, but are tiresome. My young friends are pressed for time. They are the wards in Jarndyce."


"Jarndyce!" said the old man with a start.
"Jarndyce and Jarndyce. The great suit, Krook," returned his lodger.
"Hi!" exclaimed the old man in a tone of thoughtful amazement and with a wider stare than before. "Think of it!"
He seemed so rapt all in a moment and looked so curiously at us that Richard said, "Why, you appear to trouble yourself a good deal about the causes before your noble and learned brother, the other Chancellor!"

"Jarndyce!" said the old man with a start.
"Jarndyce and Jarndyce. The great suit, Krook," returned his lodger.
"Hi!" exclaimed the old man in a tone of thoughtful amazement. "Think of it!"
He looked so curiously at us that Richard said, "Why, you appear to trouble yourself a good deal about the causes set before your learned brother, the other Chancellor!"


"Yes," said the old man abstractedly. "Sure! YOUR name now will be--"
"Richard Carstone."
"Carstone," he repeated, slowly checking off that name upon his forefinger; and each of the others he went on to mention upon a separate finger. "Yes. There was the name of Barbary, and the name of Clare, and the name of Dedlock, too, I think."
"He knows as much of the cause as the real salaried Chancellor!" said Richard, quite astonished, to Ada and me.

"Yes," said the old man abstractedly. "Sure! Your name now will be-"
"Richard Carstone."
"Carstone," he repeated. "Yes. There was the name of Barbary, and the name of Clare, and the name of Dedlock, too, I think."
"He knows as much of the cause as the real Chancellor!" said Richard, quite astonished.


"Aye!" said the old man, coming slowly out of his abstraction. "Yes! Tom Jarndyce--you'll excuse me, being related; but he was never known about court by any other name, and was as well known there as--she is now," nodding slightly at his lodger. "Tom Jarndyce was often in here. He got into a restless habit of strolling about when the cause was on, or expected, talking to the little shopkeepers and telling 'em to keep out of Chancery, whatever they did. 'For,' says he, 'it's being ground to bits in a slow mill; it's being roasted at a slow fire; it's being stung to death by single bees; it's being drowned by drops; it's going mad by grains.' He was as near making away with himself, just where the young lady stands, as near could be."
We listened with horror.

"Aye!" said the old man. "Yes! Tom Jarndyce was often in here. He got into a habit of strolling about when the cause was on, talking to the shopkeepers and telling 'em to keep out of Chancery, whatever they did. 'For,' says he, 'it's being roasted at a slow fire; it's being stung to death by single bees; it's being drowned by drops; it's going mad by grains.' He was as near making away with himself as could be."
We listened with horror.


"He come in at the door," said the old man, slowly pointing an imaginary track along the shop, "on the day he did it--the whole neighbourhood had said for months before that he would do it, of a certainty sooner or later--he come in at the door that day, and walked along there, and sat himself on a bench that stood there, and asked me (you'll judge I was a mortal sight younger then) to fetch him a pint of wine. 'For,' says he, 'Krook, I am much depressed; my cause is on again, and I think I'm nearer judgment than I ever was.' I hadn't a mind to leave him alone; and I persuaded him to go to the tavern over the way there, t'other side my lane (I mean Chancery Lane); and I followed and looked in at the window, and saw him, comfortable as I thought, in the arm-chair by the fire, and company with him. I hadn't hardly got back here when I heard a shot go echoing and rattling right away into the inn. I ran out--neighbours ran out--twenty of us cried at once, 'Tom Jarndyce!'"
The old man stopped, looked hard at us, looked down into the lantern, blew the light out, and shut the lantern up.
"We were right, I needn't tell the present hearers. Hi! To be sure, how the neighbourhood poured into court that afternoon while the cause was on! How my noble and learned brother, and all the rest of 'em, grubbed and muddled away as usual and tried to look as if they hadn't heard a word of the last fact in the case or as if they had--Oh, dear me!--nothing at all to do with it if they had heard of it by any chance!"

"He come in at the door," said the old man, "on the day he did it - the whole neighbourhood had said for months that he would do it, sooner or later - he come in that day, and sat himself on a bench there, and asked me (I was a mortal sight younger then) to fetch him a pint of wine. 'For,' says he, 'Krook, I am much depressed; my cause is on again.' I persuaded him to go to the tavern across the way; and I followed and looked in at the window, and saw him, comfortable in the arm-chair by the fire, and company with him. I hadn't hardly got back here when I heard a shot go echoing. I ran out - neighbours ran out - twenty of us cried at once, 'Tom Jarndyce!'"
The old man stopped, looked hard at us, and blew the lantern out.
"We were right. Hi! To be sure, how the neighbourhood poured into court that afternoon while the cause was on! How my noble and learned brother, and all the rest of 'em, muddled away as usual and tried to look as if they'd heard nothing, or had nothing at all to do with it!"


Ada's colour had entirely left her, and Richard was scarcely less pale. Nor could I wonder, judging even from my emotions, and I was no party in the suit, that to hearts so untried and fresh it was a shock to come into the inheritance of a protracted misery, attended in the minds of many people with such dreadful recollections. I had another uneasiness, in the application of the painful story to the poor half-witted creature who had brought us there; but, to my surprise, she seemed perfectly unconscious of that and only led the way upstairs again, informing us with the toleration of a superior creature for the infirmities of a common mortal that her landlord was "a little M, you know!"

Ada's colour had entirely left her, and Richard was scarcely less pale. I could not wonder. To my surprise, the old lady seemed unaffected and led the way upstairs again, informing us that her landlord was "a little M, you know!"


She lived at the top of the house, in a pretty large room, from which she had a glimpse of Lincoln's Inn Hall. This seemed to have been her principal inducement, originally, for taking up her residence there. She could look at it, she said, in the night, especially in the moonshine. Her room was clean, but very, very bare. I noticed the scantiest necessaries in the way of furniture; a few old prints from books, of Chancellors and barristers, wafered against the wall; and some half-dozen reticles and work-bags, "containing documents," as she informed us. There were neither coals nor ashes in the grate, and I saw no articles of clothing anywhere, nor any kind of food. Upon a shelf in an open cupboard were a plate or two, a cup or two, and so forth, but all dry and empty. There was a more affecting meaning in her pinched appearance, I thought as I looked round, than I had understood before.

She lived at the top of the house, in a large room, from which she had a glimpse of Lincoln's Inn Hall. Her room was clean, but very, very bare. There were no coals nor ashes in the grate, and no articles of clothing anywhere, nor any kind of food. Upon a shelf were a plate or two, a cup or two, but all dry and empty. I thought, as I looked round, than I understood her pinched appearance better than before.


"Extremely honoured, I am sure," said our poor hostess with the greatest suavity, "by this visit from the wards in Jarndyce. And very much indebted for the omen. It is a retired situation. Considering. I am limited as to situation. In consequence of the necessity of attending on the Chancellor. I have lived here many years. I pass my days in court, my evenings and my nights here. I find the nights long, for I sleep but little and think much. That is, of course, unavoidable, being in Chancery.

"Extremely honoured, I am sure," said our poor hostess, "by this visit from the wards in Jarndyce. And very much indebted for the omen. I have lived here many years. I pass my days in court, my evenings and my nights here. I find the nights long, for I sleep little and think much. That is, of course, unavoidable, being in Chancery.


I am sorry I cannot offer chocolate. I expect a judgment shortly and shall then place my establishment on a superior footing. At present, I don't mind confessing to the wards in Jarndyce (in strict confidence) that I sometimes find it difficult to keep up a genteel appearance. I have felt the cold here. I have felt something sharper than cold. It matters very little. Pray excuse the introduction of such mean topics."
She partly drew aside the curtain of the long, low garret window and called our attention to a number of bird-cages hanging there, some containing several birds. There were larks, linnets, and goldfinches--I should think at least twenty.

I am sorry I cannot offer chocolate. I expect a judgment shortly and shall then place my establishment on a superior footing. At present, I don't mind confessing to the wards in Jarndyce (in strict confidence) that I sometimes find it difficult to keep up a genteel appearance. I have felt the cold here. It matters very little."
She partly drew aside the curtain of the low garret window and called our attention to a number of bird-cages hanging there, containing at least twenty larks, linnets, and goldfinches.


"I began to keep the little creatures," she said, "with an object that the wards will readily comprehend. With the intention of restoring them to liberty. When my judgment should be given. Ye-es! They die in prison, though. Their lives, poor silly things, are so short in comparison with Chancery proceedings that, one by one, the whole collection has died over and over again. I doubt, do you know, whether one of these, though they are all young, will live to be free! Ve-ry mortifying, is it not?"
Although she sometimes asked a question, she never seemed to expect a reply, but rambled on as if she were in the habit of doing so when no one but herself was present.
"Indeed," she pursued, "I positively doubt sometimes, I do assure you, whether while matters are still unsettled, and the sixth or Great Seal still prevails, I may not one day be found lying stark and senseless here, as I have found so many birds!"

"I began to keep the little creatures," she said, "with the intention of restoring them to liberty. When my judgment should be given. Yes! They die in prison, though. Their lives are so short in comparison with Chancery proceedings that, one by one, the whole collection has died over and over again. Very mortifying, is it not?"
She did not seem to expect a reply, but rambled on:
"Indeed, I doubt sometimes, I do assure you, whether I may not one day be found lying stark and senseless here, as I have found so many birds!"


Richard, answering what he saw in Ada's compassionate eyes, took the opportunity of laying some money, softly and unobserved, on the chimney-piece. We all drew nearer to the cages, feigning to examine the birds.
"I can't allow them to sing much," said the little old lady, "for (you'll think this curious) I find my mind confused by the idea that they are singing while I am following the arguments in court. And my mind requires to be so very clear, you know! Another time, I'll tell you their names. Not at present. On a day of such good omen, they shall sing as much as they like. In honour of youth," a smile and curtsy, "hope," a smile and curtsy, "and beauty," a smile and curtsy. "There! We'll let in the full light."

Ada looked at Richard, who softly laid some money on the chimney-piece, unobserved.
"I can't allow the birds to sing much," said the little old lady, "for they confuse my mind. And my mind needs to be so very clear in court, you know! Another time, I'll tell you their names. On a day of such good omen, they shall sing as much as they like. In honour of youth, hope, and beauty," with a smile and curtsy. "There! We'll let in the light."


The birds began to stir and chirp.
"I cannot admit the air freely," said the little old lady--the room was close, and would have been the better for it--"because the cat you saw downstairs, called Lady Jane, is greedy for their lives. She crouches on the parapet outside for hours and hours. I have discovered," whispering mysteriously, "that her natural cruelty is sharpened by a jealous fear of their regaining their liberty. In consequence of the judgment I expect being shortly given. She is sly and full of malice. I half believe, sometimes, that she is no cat, but the wolf of the old saying. It is so very difficult to keep her from the door."

The birds began to stir and chirp.
"I cannot admit the air freely," said the little old lady, "because the cat you saw downstairs, called Lady Jane, is greedy for their lives. She crouches on the parapet outside for hours and hours. She is jealous of their regaining their liberty. In consequence of the judgment that will be shortly given. She is sly and full of malice."


Some neighbouring bells, reminding the poor soul that it was half-past nine, did more for us in the way of bringing our visit to an end than we could easily have done for ourselves. She hurriedly took up her little bag of documents, which she had laid upon the table on coming in, and asked if we were also going into court. On our answering no, and that we would on no account detain her, she opened the door to attend us downstairs.
"With such an omen, it is even more necessary than usual that I should be there before the Chancellor comes in," said she, "for he might mention my case the first thing. I have a presentiment that he WILL mention it the first thing this morning."
She stopped to tell us in a whisper as we were going down that the whole house was filled with strange lumber which her landlord had bought piecemeal and had no wish to sell, in consequence of being a little M. This was on the first floor. But she had made a previous stoppage on the second floor and had silently pointed at a dark door there.

Some neighbouring bells reminded the poor soul that it was half-past nine. She hurriedly took up her little bag of documents, and asked if we were also going into court. On our answering no, she opened the door to attend us downstairs.
"With such an omen, it is even more necessary than usual that I should be there before the Chancellor comes in," said she, "for he might mention my case the first thing. I have a feeling that he will."
She stopped on the second floor and silently pointed at a dark door.


"The only other lodger," she now whispered in explanation, "a law-writer. The children in the lanes here say he has sold himself to the devil. I don't know what he can have done with the money. Hush!"
She appeared to mistrust that the lodger might hear her even there, and repeating "Hush!" went before us on tiptoe as though even the sound of her footsteps might reveal to him what she had said.
Passing through the shop on our way out, as we had passed through it on our way in, we found the old man storing a quantity of packets of waste-paper in a kind of well in the floor. He seemed to be working hard, with the perspiration standing on his forehead, and had a piece of chalk by him, with which, as he put each separate package or bundle down, he made a crooked mark on the panelling of the wall.
Richard and Ada, and Miss Jellyby, and the little old lady had gone by him, and I was going when he touched me on the arm to stay me, and chalked the letter J upon the wall--in a very curious manner, beginning with the end of the letter and shaping it backward. It was a capital letter, not a printed one, but just such a letter as any clerk in Messrs. Kenge and Carboy's office would have made.

"The only other lodger," she whispered in explanation, "a law-writer. The children in the lanes here say he has sold himself to the devil. Hush!" She went before us down the stairs on tiptoe.
Passing through the shop on our way out, we found the old man storing a quantity of packets of waste-paper in a kind of well in the floor. He had a piece of chalk, with which, as he put each package down, he made a crooked mark on the wall.
The others had all gone past, when he touched me on the arm to stop me, and chalked the letter J upon the wall, in a very curious manner, shaping it backward.


"Can you read it?" he asked me with a keen glance.
"Surely," said I. "It's very plain."
"What is it?"
"J."
With another glance at me, and a glance at the door, he rubbed it out and turned an "a" in its place (not a capital letter this time), and said, "What's that?"
I told him. He then rubbed that out and turned the letter "r," and asked me the same question. He went on quickly until he had formed in the same curious manner, beginning at the ends and bottoms of the letters, the word Jarndyce, without once leaving two letters on the wall together.

"Can you read it?" he asked me with a keen glance.
"Surely," said I. "It's J."
With another glance at me, and a glance at the door, he rubbed it out and wrote an "a" in its place, and said, "What's that?"
I told him. He rubbed that out and wrote the letter "r," and asked the same question. He went on this way until he had formed the word Jarndyce, without once leaving two letters on the wall together.


"What does that spell?" he asked me.
When I told him, he laughed. In the same odd way, yet with the same rapidity, he then produced singly, and rubbed out singly, the letters forming the words Bleak House. These, in some astonishment, I also read; and he laughed again.
"Hi!" said the old man, laying aside the chalk. "I have a turn for copying from memory, you see, miss, though I can neither read nor write."

"What does that spell?" he asked me.
When I told him, he laughed. In the same odd way, he then produced singly, and rubbed out, the letters forming the words Bleak House. These, in some astonishment, I also read; and he laughed again.
"Hi!" said he. "I can copy from memory, you see, miss, though I can neither read nor write."


He looked so disagreeable and his cat looked so wickedly at me, as if I were a blood-relation of the birds upstairs, that I was quite relieved by Richard's appearing at the door and saying, "Miss Summerson, I hope you are not bargaining for the sale of your hair. Don't be tempted. Three sacks below are quite enough for Mr. Krook!"
I lost no time in wishing Mr. Krook good morning and joining my friends outside, where we parted with the little old lady, who gave us her blessing with great ceremony and renewed her assurance of yesterday in reference to her intention of settling estates on Ada and me. Before we finally turned out of those lanes, we looked back and saw Mr. Krook standing at his shop-door, in his spectacles, looking after us, with his cat upon his shoulder, and her tail sticking up on one side of his hairy cap like a tall feather.
"Quite an adventure for a morning in London!" said Richard with a sigh. "Ah, cousin, cousin, it's a weary word this Chancery!"

He looked so disagreeable that I was quite relieved by Richard's appearing at the door and saying, "Miss Summerson, I hope you are not bargaining for the sale of your hair. Don't be tempted. Three sacks are quite enough for Mr. Krook!"
Wishing Mr. Krook good morning, I joined my friends outside, where we parted with the little old lady. Before we left, we looked back and saw Mr. Krook standing at his shop-door, in his spectacles, looking after us, with his cat upon his shoulder.
"Quite an adventure!" said Richard with a sigh. "Ah, cousin, it's a weary word, this Chancery!"


"It is to me, and has been ever since I can remember," returned Ada. "I am grieved that I should be the enemy--as I suppose I am--of a great number of relations and others, and that they should be my enemies--as I suppose they are--and that we should all be ruining one another without knowing how or why and be in constant doubt and discord all our lives. It seems very strange, as there must be right somewhere, that an honest judge in real earnest has not been able to find out through all these years where it is."
"Ah, cousin!" said Richard. "Strange, indeed! All this wasteful, wanton chess-playing IS very strange. To see that composed court yesterday jogging on so serenely and to think of the wretchedness of the pieces on the board gave me the headache and the heartache both together. My head ached with wondering how it happened, if men were neither fools nor rascals; and my heart ached to think they could possibly be either. But at all events, Ada--I may call you Ada?"

"It is to me, and has been ever since I can remember," returned Ada. "I am grieved that I and my relations should be enemies - as I suppose we are - and that we should all be ruining one another without knowing how or why. It seems very strange that an honest judge has not been able to find out what the right thing is."
"Ah, cousin!" said Richard. "Strange, indeed! All this wasteful, wanton chess-playing is very strange. To see that composed court yesterday and to think of the wretchedness of the pieces on the board gave me the headache and the heartache both together. But at all events, Ada - I may call you Ada?"


"Of course you may, cousin Richard."
"At all events, Chancery will work none of its bad influences on US. We have happily been brought together, thanks to our good kinsman, and it can't divide us now!"
"Never, I hope, cousin Richard!" said Ada gently.
Miss Jellyby gave my arm a squeeze and me a very significant look. I smiled in return, and we made the rest of the way back very pleasantly.

"Of course you may, cousin Richard."
"At all events, Chancery will work none of its bad influences on us. We have been brought together, thanks to our good kinsman, and it can't divide us now!"
"Never, I hope, cousin Richard!" said Ada gently.
Miss Jellyby gave me a very significant look. I smiled in return, and we made our way back.


In half an hour after our arrival, Mrs. Jellyby appeared; and in the course of an hour the various things necessary for breakfast straggled one by one into the dining-room. I do not doubt that Mrs. Jellyby had gone to bed and got up in the usual manner, but she presented no appearance of having changed her dress. She was greatly occupied during breakfast, for the morning's post brought a heavy correspondence relative to Borrioboola-Gha, which would occasion her (she said) to pass a busy day. The children tumbled about, and notched memoranda of their accidents in their legs, which were perfect little calendars of distress; and Peepy was lost for an hour and a half, and brought home from Newgate market by a policeman. The equable manner in which Mrs. Jellyby sustained both his absence and his restoration to the family circle surprised us all.
She was by that time perseveringly dictating to Caddy, and Caddy was fast relapsing into the inky condition in which we had found her. At one o'clock an open carriage arrived for us, and a cart for our luggage. Mrs. Jellyby charged us with many remembrances to her good friend Mr. Jarndyce; Caddy left her desk to see us depart, kissed me in the passage, and stood biting her pen and sobbing on the steps; Peepy, I am happy to say, was asleep and spared the pain of separation (I was not without misgivings that he had gone to Newgate market in search of me); and all the other children got up behind the barouche and fell off, and we saw them, with great concern, scattered over the surface of Thavies Inn as we rolled out of its precincts.

Half an hour after our arrival, Mrs. Jellyby appeared; and the various things necessary for breakfast straggled one by one into the dining-room. Mrs. Jellyby did not seem to have changed her dress. She was greatly occupied during breakfast, for the morning's post brought a heavy correspondence about Borrioboola-Gha. The children tumbled about; and Peepy was lost for an hour and a half, and brought home from Newgate market by a policeman. The equable manner in which Mrs. Jellyby sustained both his absence and his restoration surprised us all.
She was by that time dictating to Caddy, and Caddy was fast relapsing into the inky condition in which we had found her. At one o'clock an open carriage arrived for us. Mrs. Jellyby charged us with many remembrances to her good friend Mr. Jarndyce; Caddy left her desk to see us depart, kissed me, and stood sobbing on the steps. Peepy, I am happy to say, was asleep and spared the pain of separation (I feared that he had gone to Newgate market in search of me); and all the other children got up behind the barouche and fell off. We saw them, with great concern, scattered over the ground as we rolled away.


Allegory looks pretty cool in Lincoln's Inn Fields, though the evening is hot, for both Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows are wide open, and the room is lofty, gusty, and gloomy. These may not be desirable characteristics when November comes with fog and sleet or January with ice and snow, but they have their merits in the sultry long vacation weather. They enable Allegory, though it has cheeks like peaches, and knees like bunches of blossoms, and rosy swellings for calves to its legs and muscles to its arms, to look tolerably cool to-night.
Plenty of dust comes in at Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows, and plenty more has generated among his furniture and papers. It lies thick everywhere. When a breeze from the country that has lost its way takes fright and makes a blind hurry to rush out again, it flings as much dust in the eyes of Allegory as the law--or Mr. Tulkinghorn, one of its trustiest representatives--may scatter, on occasion, in the eyes of the laity.
In his lowering magazine of dust, the universal article into which his papers and himself, and all his clients, and all things of earth, animate and inanimate, are resolving, Mr. Tulkinghorn sits at one of the open windows enjoying a bottle of old port. Though a hard-grained man, close, dry, and silent, he can enjoy old wine with the best. He has a priceless bin of port in some artful cellar under the Fields, which is one of his many secrets. When he dines alone in chambers, as he has dined to-day, and has his bit of fish and his steak or chicken brought in from the coffee-house, he descends with a candle to the echoing regions below the deserted mansion, and heralded by a remote reverberation of thundering doors, comes gravely back encircled by an earthy atmosphere and carrying a bottle from which he pours a radiant nectar, two score and ten years old, that blushes in the glass to find itself so famous and fills the whole room with the fragrance of southern grapes.

In Lincoln's Inn Fields, the evening is hot, and Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows are wide open. Plenty of dust comes in at them, and plenty more has generated among his furniture and papers. It lies thick everywhere.
In his atmosphere of dust, beneath the figure of Allegory, Mr. Tulkinghorn sits at one of the open windows enjoying a bottle of old port. Though a hard-grained man, close, dry, and silent, he can enjoy old wine with the best. He has a priceless bin of port in some artful cellar under the Fields, which is one of his many secrets. When he dines alone in chambers, as he has dined today, he descends with a candle to the echoing regions below the deserted mansion, and comes back with a bottle from which he pours a radiant nectar, fifty years old, that fills the whole room with the fragrance of southern grapes.


Mr. Tulkinghorn, sitting in the twilight by the open window, enjoys his wine. As if it whispered to him of its fifty years of silence and seclusion, it shuts him up the closer. More impenetrable than ever, he sits, and drinks, and mellows as it were in secrecy, pondering at that twilight hour on all the mysteries he knows, associated with darkening woods in the country, and vast blank shut-up houses in town, and perhaps sparing a thought or two for himself, and his family history, and his money, and his will--all a mystery to every one--and that one bachelor friend of his, a man of the same mould and a lawyer too, who lived the same kind of life until he was seventy-five years old, and then suddenly conceiving (as it is supposed) an impression that it was too monotonous, gave his gold watch to his hair-dresser one summer evening and walked leisurely home to the Temple and hanged himself.
But Mr. Tulkinghorn is not alone to-night to ponder at his usual length. Seated at the same table, though with his chair modestly and uncomfortably drawn a little way from it, sits a bald, mild, shining man who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyer bids him fill his glass.
"Now, Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "to go over this odd story again."
"If you please, sir."
"You told me when you were so good as to step round here last night--"
"For which I must ask you to excuse me if it was a liberty, sir; but I remember that you had taken a sort of an interest in that person, and I thought it possible that you might--just--wish--to--"

Mr. Tulkinghorn, sitting in the twilight, enjoys his wine. As if it whispered to him of its fifty years of silence and seclusion, it shuts him up the closer. He sits, and drinks, and ponders on all the mysteries he knows, associated with darkening woods in the country, and vast blank shut-up houses in town, and perhaps sparing a thought or two for himself, and his family history, and his money, and his will - all a mystery to everyone.
But Mr. Tulkinghorn is not alone tonight. Seated at the same table, though with his chair modestly drawn a little way from it, sits a bald, mild man who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyer bids him fill his glass.
"Now, Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "go over this odd story again."
"I remembered, sir, that you had taken an interest in that person, and I thought it possible that you might - just - wish-"


Mr. Tulkinghorn is not the man to help him to any conclusion or to admit anything as to any possibility concerning himself. So Mr. Snagsby trails off into saying, with an awkward cough, "I must ask you to excuse the liberty, sir, I am sure."
"Not at all," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "You told me, Snagsby, that you put on your hat and came round without mentioning your intention to your wife. That was prudent I think, because it's not a matter of such importance that it requires to be mentioned."
"Well, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby, "you see, my little woman is--not to put too fine a point upon it--inquisitive. She's inquisitive. Poor little thing, she's liable to spasms, and it's good for her to have her mind employed. In consequence of which she employs it--I should say upon every individual thing she can lay hold of, whether it concerns her or not--especially not. My little woman has a very active mind, sir."

Mr. Tulkinghorn does not help him. Mr. Snagsby trails off into saying, with an awkward cough, "Excuse the liberty, sir."
"Not at all," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "You told me, Snagsby, that you came round without mentioning your intention to your wife. That was prudent, because it's not a matter of such importance that it needs to be mentioned."
"Well, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby, "you see, my little woman is - not to put too fine a point upon it - inquisitive. My little woman has a very active mind, sir."


Mr. Snagsby drinks and murmurs with an admiring cough behind his hand, "Dear me, very fine wine indeed!"
"Therefore you kept your visit to yourself last night?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "And to-night too?"
"Yes, sir, and to-night, too. My little woman is at present in--not to put too fine a point on it--in a pious state, or in what she considers such, and attends the Evening Exertions (which is the name they go by) of a reverend party of the name of Chadband. He has a great deal of eloquence at his command, undoubtedly, but I am not quite favourable to his style myself. That's neither here nor there. My little woman being engaged in that way made it easier for me to step round in a quiet manner."

"Therefore you kept your visit to yourself?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn.
"Yes, sir. My little woman is at present in a pious state, and attends the Evening Exertions of the Reverend Chadband. My little woman being engaged in that way made it easier for me to step round quietly."


Mr. Tulkinghorn assents. "Fill your glass, Snagsby."
"Thank you, sir, I am sure," returns the stationer with his cough of deference. "This is wonderfully fine wine, sir!"
"It is a rare wine now," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "It is fifty years old."
"Is it indeed, sir? But I am not surprised to hear it, I am sure. It might be--any age almost." After rendering this general tribute to the port, Mr. Snagsby in his modesty coughs an apology behind his hand for drinking anything so precious.

"Fill your glass, Snagsby."
"Thank you, sir, I am sure," returns the stationer with his cough of deference. "This is wonderfully fine wine, sir!"
"It is fifty years old.


"Will you run over, once again, what the boy said?" asks Mr. Tulkinghorn, putting his hands into the pockets of his rusty smallclothes and leaning quietly back in his chair.
"With pleasure, sir."
Then, with fidelity, though with some prolixity, the law-stationer repeats Jo's statement made to the assembled guests at his house. On coming to the end of his narrative, he gives a great start and breaks off with, "Dear me, sir, I wasn't aware there was any other gentleman present!"
Mr. Snagsby is dismayed to see, standing with an attentive face between himself and the lawyer at a little distance from the table, a person with a hat and stick in his hand who was not there when he himself came in and has not since entered by the door or by either of the windows. There is a press in the room, but its hinges have not creaked, nor has a step been audible upon the floor. Yet this third person stands there with his attentive face, and his hat and stick in his hands, and his hands behind him, a composed and quiet listener. He is a stoutly built, steady-looking, sharp-eyed man in black, of about the middle-age. Except that he looks at Mr. Snagsby as if he were going to take his portrait, there is nothing remarkable about him at first sight but his ghostly manner of appearing.

Will you run over, once again, what the boy said?" Mr. Tulkinghorn leans back in his chair.
"With pleasure, sir." The law-stationer repeats Jo's statement made to the guests at his house. On coming to the end of his narrative, he gives a great start and breaks off with, "Dear me, sir, I wasn't aware there was any other gentleman present!"
Mr. Snagsby is dismayed to see, standing attentively at a little distance from the table, a person with a hat and stick in his hand who was not there when he came in and who has not entered since. There is a wardrobe in the room, but its hinges have not creaked, nor has a step been audible. Yet this third person stands there with his hat and stick in his hands, a composed and quiet listener. He is a stoutly built, steady-looking, sharp-eyed middle-aged man in black. There is nothing remarkable about him but his ghostly manner of appearing.


"Don't mind this gentleman," says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his quiet way. "This is only Mr. Bucket."
"Oh, indeed, sir?" returns the stationer, expressing by a cough that he is quite in the dark as to who Mr. Bucket may be.
"I wanted him to hear this story," says the lawyer, "because I have half a mind (for a reason) to know more of it, and he is very intelligent in such things. What do you say to this, Bucket?"
"It's very plain, sir. Since our people have moved this boy on, and he's not to be found on his old lay, if Mr. Snagsby don't object to go down with me to Tom-all-Alone's and point him out, we can have him here in less than a couple of hours' time. I can do it without Mr. Snagsby, of course, but this is the shortest way."
"Mr. Bucket is a detective officer, Snagsby," says the lawyer in explanation.

"Don't mind this gentleman," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "This is only Mr. Bucket."
"Oh, indeed, sir?" returns the stationer, expressing by a cough that he is quite in the dark as to who Mr. Bucket may be.
"I wanted him to hear this story," says the lawyer, "because he is very intelligent in such things. What do you say to this, Bucket?"
"It's very plain, sir. If Mr. Snagsby don't object to go down with me to Tom-all-Alone's and point this boy out, we can have him here in a couple of hours. I can do it without Mr. Snagsby, of course, but this is the shortest way."
"Mr. Bucket is a detective officer, Snagsby," says the lawyer in explanation.


"Is he indeed, sir?" says Mr. Snagsby with a strong tendency in his clump of hair to stand on end.
"And if you have no real objection to accompany Mr. Bucket to the place in question," pursues the lawyer, "I shall feel obliged to you if you will do so."
In a moment's hesitation on the part of Mr. Snagsby, Bucket dips down to the bottom of his mind.

"Is he indeed, sir?" says Mr. Snagsby with some alarm.
"And if you have no objection to accompany Mr. Bucket to the place in question," pursues the lawyer, "I shall feel obliged if you will do so."
As Mr. Snagsby hesitates, Bucket reads his mind.


"Don't you be afraid of hurting the boy," he says. "You won't do that. It's all right as far as the boy's concerned. We shall only bring him here to ask him a question or so I want to put to him, and he'll be paid for his trouble and sent away again. It'll be a good job for him. I promise you, as a man, that you shall see the boy sent away all right. Don't you be afraid of hurting him; you an't going to do that."
"Very well, Mr. Tulkinghorn!" cries Mr. Snagsby cheerfully. And reassured, "Since that's the case--"

"Don't you be afraid of hurting the boy," says Bucket. "You won't do that. We shall only bring him here to ask him a question or so, and he'll be paid for his trouble and sent away again. It'll be a good job for him. I promise you, as a man, that you shall see the boy sent away all right. Don't you be afraid of hurting him."
"Very well, Mr. Tulkinghorn!" cries Mr. Snagsby, reassured.


"Yes! And lookee here, Mr. Snagsby," resumes Bucket, taking him aside by the arm, tapping him familiarly on the breast, and speaking in a confidential tone. "You're a man of the world, you know, and a man of business, and a man of sense. That's what YOU are."
"I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good opinion," returns the stationer with his cough of modesty, "but--"
"That's what YOU are, you know," says Bucket. "Now, it an't necessary to say to a man like you, engaged in your business, which is a business of trust and requires a person to be wide awake and have his senses about him and his head screwed on tight (I had an uncle in your business once)--it an't necessary to say to a man like you that it's the best and wisest way to keep little matters like this quiet. Don't you see? Quiet!"
"Certainly, certainly," returns the other.

"And lookee here, Mr. Snagsby," resumes Bucket, taking him by the arm, and speaking in a confidential tone. "You're a man of the world, and a man of business, and a man of sense."
"I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good opinion," returns the stationer with his cough of modesty, "but-"
"That's what you are, you know," says Bucket. "Now, it an't necessary to say to a man like you that it's best and wisest to keep little matters like this quiet. Quiet!"
"Certainly, certainly," returns the other.


"I don't mind telling YOU," says Bucket with an engaging appearance of frankness, "that as far as I can understand it, there seems to be a doubt whether this dead person wasn't entitled to a little property, and whether this female hasn't been up to some games respecting that property, don't you see?"
"Oh!" says Mr. Snagsby, but not appearing to see quite distinctly.
"Now, what YOU want," pursues Bucket, again tapping Mr. Snagsby on the breast in a comfortable and soothing manner, "is that every person should have their rights according to justice. That's what YOU want."
"To be sure," returns Mr. Snagsby with a nod.
"On account of which, and at the same time to oblige a--do you call it, in your business, customer or client? I forget how my uncle used to call it."
"Why, I generally say customer myself," replies Mr. Snagsby.

"I don't mind telling you," says Bucket with an engaging appearance of frankness, "that as far as I can understand, there seems to be a doubt whether this dead person wasn't entitled to a little property, and whether this female hasn't been up to some games respecting that property, don't you see?"
"Oh!" says Mr. Snagsby.
"Now, what you want," pursues Bucket, tapping Mr. Snagsby on the breast in a comfortable manner, "is that every person should have their rights according to justice."
"To be sure," returns Mr. Snagsby.