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Full Online Book HomeLong StoriesBleak House - Chapter XLIX - Dutiful Friendship
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Bleak House - Chapter XLIX - Dutiful Friendship Post by :E-Bookbiz4u Category :Long Stories Author :Charles Dickens Date :December 2010 Read :1461

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Bleak House - Chapter XLIX - Dutiful Friendship

A great annual occasion has come round in the establishment of Mr.
Matthew Bagnet, otherwise Lignum Vitae, ex-artilleryman and present
bassoon-player. An occasion of feasting and festival. The
celebration of a birthday in the family.

It is not Mr. Bagnet's birthday. Mr. Bagnet merely distinguishes
that epoch in the musical instrument business by kissing the
children with an extra smack before breakfast, smoking an
additional pipe after dinner, and wondering towards evening what
his poor old mother is thinking about it--a subject of infinite
speculation, and rendered so by his mother having departed this
life twenty years. Some men rarely revert to their father, but
seem, in the bank-books of their remembrance, to have transferred
all the stock of filial affection into their mother's name. Mr.
Bagnet is one of like his trade the better for that. If I had kept
clear of his old girl causes him usually to make the noun-
substantive "goodness" of the feminine gender.

It is not the birthday of one of the three children. Those
occasions are kept with some marks of distinction, but they rarely
overleap the bounds of happy returns and a pudding. On young
Woolwich's last birthday, Mr. Bagnet certainly did, after observing
on his growth and general advancement, proceed, in a moment of
profound reflection on the changes wrought by time, to examine him
in the catechism, accomplishing with extreme accuracy the questions
number one and two, "What is your name?" and "Who gave you that
name?" but there failing in the exact precision of his memory and
substituting for number three the question "And how do you like
that name?" which he propounded with a sense of its importance, in
itself so edifying and improving as to give it quite an orthodox
air. This, however, was a speciality on that particular birthday,
and not a general solemnity.

It is the old girl's birthday, and that is the greatest holiday and
reddest-letter day in Mr. Bagnet's calendar. The auspicious event
is always commemorated according to certain forms settled and
prescribed by Mr. Bagnet some years since. Mr. Bagnet, being
deeply convinced that to have a pair of fowls for dinner is to
attain the highest pitch of imperial luxury, invariably goes forth
himself very early in the morning of this day to buy a pair; he is,
as invariably, taken in by the vendor and installed in the
possession of the oldest inhabitants of any coop in Europe.
Returning with these triumphs of toughness tied up in a clean blue
and white cotton handkerchief (essential to the arrangements), he
in a casual manner invites Mrs. Bagnet to declare at breakfast what
she would like for dinner. Mrs. Bagnet, by a coincidence never
known to fail, replying fowls, Mr. Bagnet instantly produces his
bundle from a place of concealment amidst general amazement and
rejoicing. He further requires that the old girl shall do nothing
all day long but sit in her very best gown and be served by himself
and the young people. As he is not illustrious for his cookery,
this may be supposed to be a matter of state rather than enjoyment
on the old girl's part, but she keeps her state with all imaginable
cheerfulness.

On this present birthday, Mr. Bagnet has accomplished the usual
preliminaries. He has bought two specimens of poultry, which, if
there be any truth in adages, were certainly not caught with chaff,
to be prepared for the spit; he has amazed and rejoiced the family
by their unlooked-for production; he is himself directing the
roasting of the poultry; and Mrs. Bagnet, with her wholesome brown
fingers itching to prevent what she sees going wrong, sits in her
gown of ceremony, an honoured guest.

Quebec and Malta lay the cloth for dinner, while Woolwich, serving,
as beseems him, under his father, keeps the fowls revolving. To
these young scullions Mrs. Bagnet occasionally imparts a wink, or a
shake of the head, or a crooked face, as they made mistakes.

"At half after one." Says Mr. Bagnet. "To the minute. They'll be
done."

Mrs. Bagnet, with anguish, beholds one of them at a standstill
before the fire and beginning to burn.

"You shall have a dinner, old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Fit for a
queen."

Mrs. Bagnet shows her white teeth cheerfully, but to the perception
of her son, betrays so much uneasiness of spirit that he is
impelled by the dictates of affection to ask her, with his eyes,
what is the matter, thus standing, with his eyes wide open, more
oblivious of the fowls than before, and not affording the least
hope of a return to consciousness. Fortunately his elder sister
perceives the cause of the agitation in Mrs. Bagnet's breast and
with an admonitory poke recalls him. The stopped fowls going round
again, Mrs. Bagnet closes her eyes in the intensity of her relief.

"George will look us up," says Mr. Bagnet. "At half after four.
To the moment. How many years, old girl. Has George looked us up.
This afternoon?"

"Ah, Lignum, Lignum, as many as make an old woman of a young one, I
begin to think. Just about that, and no less," returns Mrs.
Bagnet, laughing and shaking her head.

"Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "never mind. You'd be as young as
ever you was. If you wasn't younger. Which you are. As everybody
knows."

Quebec and Malta here exclaim, with clapping of hands, that Bluffy
is sure to bring mother something, and begin to speculate on what
it will be.

"Do you know, Lignum," says Mrs. Bagnet, casting a glance on the
table-cloth, and winking "salt!" at Malta with her right eye, and
shaking the pepper away from Quebec with her head, "I begin to
think George is in the roving way again.

"George," returns Mr. Bagnet, "will never desert. And leave his
old comrade. In the lurch. Don't be afraid of it."

"No, Lignum. No. I don't say he will. I don't think he will.
But if he could get over this money trouble of his, I believe he
would be off."

Mr. Bagnet asks why.

"Well," returns his wife, considering, "George seems to me to be
getting not a little impatient and restless. I don't say but what
he's as free as ever. Of course he must be free or he wouldn't be
George, but he smarts and seems put out."

"He's extra-drilled," says Mr. Bagnet. "By a lawyer. Who would
put the devil out."

"There's something in that," his wife assents; "but so it is,
Lignum."

Further conversation is prevented, for the time, by the necessity
under which Mr. Bagnet finds himself of directing the whole force
of his mind to the dinner, which is a little endangered by the dry
humour of the fowls in not yielding any gravy, and also by the made
gravy acquiring no flavour and turning out of a flaxen complexion.
With a similar perverseness, the potatoes crumble off forks in the
process of peeling, upheaving from their centres in every
direction, as if they were subject to earthquakes. The legs of the
fowls, too, are longer than could be desired, and extremely scaly.
Overcoming these disadvantages to the best of his ability, Mr.
Bagnet at last dishes and they sit down at table, Mrs. Bagnet
occupying the guest's place at his right hand.

It is well for the old girl that she has but one birthday in a
year, for two such indulgences in poultry might be injurious.
Every kind of finer tendon and ligament that is in the nature of
poultry to possess is developed in these specimens in the singular
form of guitar-strings. Their limbs appear to have struck roots
into their breasts and bodies, as aged trees strike roots into the
earth. Their legs are so hard as to encourage the idea that they
must have devoted the greater part of their long and arduous lives
to pedestrian exercises and the walking of matches. But Mr.
Bagnet, unconscious of these little defects, sets his heart on Mrs.
Bagnet eating a most severe quantity of the delicacies before her;
and as that good old girl would not cause him a moment's
disappointment on any day, least of all on such a day, for any
consideration, she imperils her digestion fearfully. How young
Woolwich cleans the drum-sticks without being of ostrich descent,
his anxious mother is at a loss to understand.

The old girl has another trial to undergo after the conclusion of
the repast in sitting in state to see the room cleared, the hearth
swept, and the dinner-service washed up and polished in the
backyard. The great delight and energy with which the two young
ladies apply themselves to these duties, turning up their skirts in
imitation of their mother and skating in and out on little
scaffolds of pattens, inspire the highest hopes for the future, but
some anxiety for the present. The same causes lead to confusion of
tongues, a clattering of crockery, a rattling of tin mugs, a
whisking of brooms, and an expenditure of water, all in excess,
while the saturation of the young ladies themselves is almost too
moving a spectacle for Mrs. Bagnet to look upon with the calmness
proper to her position. At last the various cleansing processes
are triumphantly completed; Quebec and Malta appear in fresh
attire, smiling and dry; pipes, tobacco, and something to drink are
placed upon the table; and the old girl enjoys the first peace of
mind she ever knows on the day of this delightful entertainment.

When Mr. Bagnet takes his usual seat, the hands of the clock are
very near to half-past four; as they mark it accurately, Mr. Bagnet
announces, "George! Military time."

It is George, and he has hearty congratulations for the old girl
(whom he kisses on the great occasion), and for the children, and
for Mr. Bagnet. "Happy returns to all!" says Mr. George.

"But, George, old man!" cries Mrs. Bagnet, looking at him
curiously. "What's come to you?"

"Come to me?"

"Ah! You are so white, George--for you--and look so shocked. Now
don't he, Lignum?"

"George," says Mr. Bagnet, "tell the old girl. What's the matter."

"I didn't know I looked white," says the trooper, passing his hand
over his brow, "and I didn't know I looked shocked, and I'm sorry I
do. But the truth is, that boy who was taken in at my place died
yesterday afternoon, and it has rather knocked me over."

"Poor creetur!" says Mrs. Bagnet with a mother's pity. "Is he
gone? Dear, dear!"

"I didn't mean to say anything about it, for it's not birthday
talk, but you have got it out of me, you see, before I sit down. I
should have roused up in a minute," says the trooper, making
himself speak more gaily, "but you're so quick, Mrs. Bagnet."

"You're right. The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Is as quick. As
powder."

"And what's more, she's the subject of the day, and we'll stick to
her," cries Mr. George. "See here, I have brought a little brooch
along with me. It's a poor thing, you know, but it's a keepsake.
That's all the good it is, Mrs. Bagnet."

Mr. George produces his present, which is greeted with admiring
leapings and clappings by the young family, and with a species of
reverential admiration by Mr. Bagnet. "Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet.
"Tell him my opinion of it."

"Why, it's a wonder, George!" Mrs. Bagnet exclaims. "It's the
beautifullest thing that ever was seen!"

"Good!" says Mr. Bagnet. "My opinion."

"It's so pretty, George," cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning it on all
sides and holding it out at arm's length, "that it seems too choice
for me."

"Bad!" says Mr. Bagnet. "Not my opinlon."

"But whatever it is, a hundred thousand thanks, old fellow," says
Mrs. Bagnet, her eyes sparkling with pleasure and her hand
stretched out to him; "and though I have been a crossgrained
soldier's wife to you sometimes, George, we are as strong friends,
I am sure, in reality, as ever can be. Now you shall fasten it on
yourself, for good luck, if you will, George."

The children close up to see it done, and Mr. Bagnet looks over
young Woolwich's head to see it done with an interest so maturely
wooden, yet pleasantly childish, that Mrs. Bagnet cannot help
laughing in her airy way and saying, "Oh, Lignum, Lignum, what a
precious old chap you are!" But the trooper fails to fasten the
brooch. His hand shakes, he is nervous, and it falls off. "Would
any one believe this?" says he, catching it as it drops and looking
round. "I am so out of sorts that I bungle at an easy job like
this!"

Mrs. Bagnet concludes that for such a case there is no remedy like
a pipe, and fastening the brooch herself in a twinkling, causes the
trooper to be inducted into his usual snug place and the pipes to
be got into action. "If that don't bring you round, George," says
she, "just throw your eye across here at your present now and then,
and the two together MUST do it."

"You ought to do it of yourself," George answers; "I know that very
well, Mrs. Bagnet. I'll tell you how, one way and another, the
blues have got to be too many for me. Here was this poor lad.
'Twas dull work to see him dying as he did, and not be able to help
him."

"What do you mean, George? You did help him. You took him under
your roof."

"I helped him so far, but that's little. I mean, Mrs. Bagnet,
there he was, dying without ever having been taught much more than
to know his right hand from his left. And he was too far gone to
be helped out of that."

"Ah, poor creetur!" says Mrs. Bagnet.

"Then," says the trooper, not yet lighting his pipe, and passing
his heavy hand over his hair, "that brought up Gridley in a man's
mind. His was a bad case too, in a different way. Then the two
got mixed up in a man's mind with a flinty old rascal who had to do
with both. And to think of that rusty carbine, stock and barrel,
standing up on end in his corner, hard, indifferent, taking
everything so evenly--it made flesh and blood tingle, I do assure
you."

"My advice to you," returns Mrs. Bagnet, "is to light your pipe and
tingle that way. It's wholesomer and comfortabler, and better for
the health altogether."

"You're right," says the trooper, "and I'll do it."

So he does it, though still with an indignant gravity that
impresses the young Bagnets, and even causes Mr. Bagnet to defer
the ceremony of drinking Mrs. Bagnet's health, always given by
himself on these occasions in a speech of exemplary terseness. But
the young ladies having composed what Mr. Bagnet is in the habit of
calling "the mixtur," and George's pipe being now in a glow, Mr.
Bagnet considers it his duty to proceed to the toast of the
evening. He addresses the assembled company in the following
terms.

"George. Woolwich. Quebec. Malta. This is her birthday. Take a
day's march. And you won't find such another. Here's towards
her!"

The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, Mrs. Bagnet returns
thanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity. This model
composition is limited to the three words "And wishing yours!"
which the old girl follows up with a nod at everybody in succession
and a well-regulated swig of the mixture. This she again follows
up, on the present occasion, by the wholly unexpected exclamation,
"Here's a man!"

Here IS a man, much to the astonishment of the little company,
looking in at the parlour-door. He is a sharp-eyed man--a quick
keen man--and he takes in everybody's look at him, all at once,
individually and collectively, in a manner that stamps him a
remarkable man.

"George," says the man, nodding, "how do you find yourself?"

"Why, it's Bucket!" cries Mr. George.

"Yes," says the man, coming in and closing the door. "I was going
down the street here when I happened to stop and look in at the
musical instruments in the shop-window--a friend of mine is in want
of a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone--and I saw a party
enjoying themselves, and I thought it was you in the corner; I
thought I couldn't be mistaken. How goes the world with you,
George, at the present moment? Pretty smooth? And with you,
ma'am? And with you, governor? And Lord," says Mr. Bucket,
opening his arms, "here's children too! You may do anything with
me if you only show me children. Give us a kiss, my pets. No
occasion to inquire who YOUR father and mother is. Never saw such
a likeness in my life!"

Mr. Bucket, not unwelcome, has sat himself down next to Mr. George
and taken Quebec and Malta on his knees. "You pretty dears," says
Mr. Bucket, "give us another kiss; it's the only thing I'm greedy
in. Lord bless you, how healthy you look! And what may be the
ages of these two, ma'am? I should put 'em down at the figures of
about eight and ten."

"You're very near, sir," says Mrs. Bagnet.

"I generally am near," returns Mr. Bucket, "being so fond of
children. A friend of mine has had nineteen of 'em, ma'am, all by
one mother, and she's still as fresh and rosy as the morning. Not
so much so as yourself, but, upon my soul, she comes near you! And
what do you call these, my darling?" pursues Mr. Bucket, pinching
Malta's cheeks. "These are peaches, these are. Bless your heart!
And what do you think about father? Do you think father could
recommend a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone for Mr.
Bucket's friend, my dear? My name's Bucket. Ain't that a funny
name?"

These blandishments have entirely won the family heart. Mrs.
Bagnet forgets the day to the extent of filling a pipe and a glass
for Mr. Bucket and waiting upon him hospitably. She would be glad
to receive so pleasant a character under any circumstances, but she
tells him that as a friend of George's she is particularly glad to
see him this evening, for George has not been in his usual spirits.

"Not in his usual spirits?" exclaims Mr. Bucket. "Why, I never
heard of such a thing! What's the matter, George? You don't
intend to tell me you've been out of spirits. What should you be
out of spirits for? You haven't got anything on your mind, you
know."

"Nothing particular," returns the trooper.

"I should think not," rejoins Mr. Bucket. "What could you have on
your mind, you know! And have these pets got anything on THEIR
minds, eh? Not they, but they'll be upon the minds of some of the
young fellows, some of these days, and make 'em precious low-
spirited. I ain't much of a prophet, but I can tell you that,
ma'am."

Mrs. Bagnet, quite charmed, hopes Mr. Bucket has a family of his
own.

"There, ma'am!" says Mr. Bucket. "Would you believe it? No, I
haven't. My wife and a lodger constitute my family. Mrs. Bucket
is as fond of children as myself and as wishful to have 'em, but
no. So it is. Worldly goods are divided unequally, and man must
not repine. What a very nice backyard, ma'am! Any way out of that
yard, now?"

There is no way out of that yard.

"Ain't there really?" says Mr. Bucket. "I should have thought
there might have been. Well, I don't know as I ever saw a backyard
that took my fancy more. Would you allow me to look at it? Thank
you. No, I see there's no way out. But what a very good-
proportioned yard it is!"

Having cast his sharp eye all about it, Mr. Bucket returns to his
chair next his friend Mr. George and pats Mr. George affectionately
on the shoulder.

"How are your spirits now, George?"

"All right now," returns the trooper.

"That's your sort!" says Mr. Bucket. "Why should you ever have
been otherwise? A man of your fine figure and constitution has no
right to be out of spirits. That ain't a chest to be out of
spirits, is it, ma'am? And you haven't got anything on your mind,
you know, George; what could you have on your mind!"

Somewhat harping on this phrase, considering the extent and variety
of his conversational powers, Mr. Bucket twice or thrice repeats it
to the pipe he lights, and with a listening face that is
particularly his own. But the sun of his sociality soon recovers
from this brief eclipse and shines again.

"And this is brother, is it, my dears?" says Mr. Bucket, referring
to Quebec and Malta for information on the subject of young
Woolwich. "And a nice brother he is--half-brother I mean to say.
For he's too old to be your boy, ma'am."

"I can certify at all events that he is not anybody else's,"
returns Mrs. Bagnet, laughing.

"Well, you do surprise me! Yet he's like you, there's no denying.
Lord, he's wonderfully like you! But about what you may call the
brow, you know, THERE his father comes out!" Mr. Bucket compares
the faces with one eye shut up, while Mr. Bagnet smokes in stolid
satisfaction.

This is an opportunity for Mrs. Bagnet to inform him that the boy
is George's godson.

"George's godson, is he?" rejoins Mr. Bucket with extreme
cordiality. "I must shake hands over again with George's godson.
Godfather and godson do credit to one another. And what do you
intend to make of him, ma'am? Does he show any turn for any
musical instrument?"

Mr. Bagnet suddenly interposes, "Plays the fife. Beautiful."

"Would you believe it, governor," says Mr. Bucket, struck by the
coincidence, "that when I was a boy I played the fife myself? Not
in a scientific way, as I expect he does, but by ear. Lord bless
you! 'British Grenadiers'--there's a tune to warm an Englishman
up! COULD you give us 'British Grenadiers,' my fine fellow?"

Nothing could be more acceptable to the little circle than this
call upon young Woolwich, who immediately fetches his fife and
performs the stirring melody, during which performance Mr. Bucket,
much enlivened, beats time and never falls to come in sharp with
the burden, "British Gra-a-anadeers!" In short, he shows so much
musical taste that Mr. Bagnet actually takes his pipe from his lips
to express his conviction that he is a singer. Mr. Bucket receives
the harmonious impeachment so modestly, confessing how that he did
once chaunt a little, for the expression of the feelings of his own
bosom, and with no presumptuous idea of entertaining his friends,
that he is asked to sing. Not to be behindhand in the sociality of
the evening, he complies and gives them "Believe Me, if All Those
Endearing Young Charms." This ballad, he informs Mrs. Bagnet, he
considers to have been his most powerful ally in moving the heart
of Mrs. Bucket when a maiden, and inducing her to approach the
altar--Mr. Bucket's own words are "to come up to the scratch."

This sparkling stranger is such a new and agreeable feature in the
evening that Mr. George, who testified no great emotions of
pleasure on his entrance, begins, in spite of himself, to be rather
proud of him. He is so friendly, is a man of so many resources,
and so easy to get on with, that it is something to have made him
known there. Mr. Bagnet becomes, after another pipe, so sensible
of the value of his acquaintance that he solicits the honour of his
company on the old girl's next birthday. If anything can more
closely cement and consolidate the esteem which Mr. Bucket has
formed for the family, it is the discovery of the nature of the
occasion. He drinks to Mrs. Bagnet with a warmth approaching to
rapture, engages himself for that day twelvemonth more than
thankfully, makes a memorandum of the day in a large black pocket-
book with a girdle to it, and breathes a hope that Mrs. Bucket and
Mrs. Bagnet may before then become, in a manner, sisters. As he
says himself, what is public life without private ties? He is in
his humble way a public man, but it is not in that sphere that he
finds happiness. No, it must be sought within the confines of
domestic bliss.

It is natural, under these circumstances, that he, in his turn,
should remember the friend to whom he is indebted for so promising
an acquaintance. And he does. He keeps very close to him.
Whatever the subject of the conversation, he keeps a tender eye
upon him. He waits to walk home with him. He is interested in his
very boots and observes even them attentively as Mr. George sits
smoking cross-legged in the chimney-corner.

At length Mr. George rises to depart. At the same moment Mr.
Bucket, with the secret sympathy of friendship, also rises. He
dotes upon the children to the last and remembers the commission he
has undertaken for an absent friend.

"Respecting that second-hand wiolinceller, governor--could you
recommend me such a thing?"

"Scores," says Mr. Bagnet.

"I am obliged to you," returns Mr. Bucket, squeezing his hand.
"You're a friend in need. A good tone, mind you! My friend is a
regular dab at it. Ecod, he saws away at Mozart and Handel and the
rest of the big-wigs like a thorough workman. And you needn't,"
says Mr. Bucket in a considerate and private voice, "you needn't
commit yourself to too low a figure, governor. I don't want to pay
too large a price for my friend, but I want you to have your proper
percentage and be remunerated for your loss of time. That is but
fair. Every man must live, and ought to it."

Mr. Bagnet shakes his head at the old girl to the effect that they
have found a jewel of price.

"Suppose I was to give you a look in, say, at half arter ten to-
morrow morning. Perhaps you could name the figures of a few
wiolincellers of a good tone?" says Mr. Bucket.

Nothing easier. Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet both engage to have the
requisite information ready and even hint to each other at the
practicability of having a small stock collected there for
approval.

"Thank you," says Mr. Bucket, "thank you. Good night, ma'am. Good
night, governor. Good night, darlings. I am much obliged to you
for one of the pleasantest evenings I ever spent in my life."

They, on the contrary, are much obliged to him for the pleasure he
has given them in his company; and so they part with many
expressions of goodwill on both sides. "Now George, old boy," says
Mr. Bucket, taking his arm at the shop-door, "come along!" As they
go down the little street and the Bagnets pause for a minute
looking after them, Mrs. Bagnet remarks to the worthy Lignum that
Mr. Bucket "almost clings to George like, and seems to be really
fond of him."

The neighbouring streets being narrow and ill-paved, it is a little
inconvenient to walk there two abreast and arm in arm. Mr. George
therefore soon proposes to walk singly. But Mr. Bucket, who cannot
make up his mind to relinquish his friendly hold, replies, "Wait
half a minute, George. I should wish to speak to you first."
Immediately afterwards, he twists him into a public-house and into
a parlour, where he confronts him and claps his own back against
the door.

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, "duty is duty, and friendship is
friendship. I never want the two to clash if I can help it. I
have endeavoured to make things pleasant to-night, and I put it to
you whether I have done it or not. You must consider yourself in
custody, George."

"Custody? What for?" returns the trooper, thunderstruck.

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, urging a sensible view of the case
upon him with his fat forefinger, "duty, as you know very well, is
one thing, and conversation is another. It's my duty to inform you
that any observations you may make will be liable to be used
against you. Therefore, George, be careful what you say. You
don't happen to have heard of a murder?"

"Murder!"

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger in an
impressive state of action, "bear in mind what I've said to you. I
ask you nothing. You've been in low spirits this afternoon. I
say, you don't happen to have heard of a murder?"

"No. Where has there been a murder?"

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, "don't you go and commit yourself.
I'm a-going to tell you what I want you for. There has been a
murder in Lincoln's Inn Fields--gentleman of the name of
Tulkinghorn. He was shot last night. I want you for that."

The trooper sinks upon a seat behind him, and great drops start out
upon his forehead, and a deadly pallor overspreads his face.

"Bucket! It's not possible that Mr. Tulkinghorn has been killed
and that you suspect ME?"

"George," returns Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger going, "it is
certainly possible, because it's the case. This deed was done last
night at ten o'clock. Now, you know where you were last night at
ten o'clock, and you'll be able to prove it, no doubt."

"Last night! Last night?" repeats the trooper thoughtfully. Then
it flashes upon him. "Why, great heaven, I was there last night!"

"So I have understood, George," returns Mr. Bucket with great
deliberation. "So I have understood. Likewise you've been very
often there. You've been seen hanging about the place, and you've
been heard more than once in a wrangle with him, and it's possible
--I don't say it's certainly so, mind you, but it's possible--that
he may have been heard to call you a threatening, murdering,
dangerous fellow."

The trooper gasps as if he would admit it all if he could speak.

"Now, George," continues Mr. Bucket, putting his hat upon the table
with an air of business rather in the upholstery way than
otherwise, "my wish is, as it has been all the evening, to make
things pleasant. I tell you plainly there's a reward out, of a
hundred guineas, offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. You
and me have always been pleasant together; but I have got a duty to
discharge; and if that hundred guineas is to be made, it may as
well be made by me as any other man. On all of which accounts, I
should hope it was clear to you that I must have you, and that I'm
damned if I don't have you. Am I to call in any assistance, or is
the trick done?"

Mr. George has recovered himself and stands up like a soldier.
"Come," he says; "I am ready."

"George," continues Mr. Bucket, "wait a bit!" With his upholsterer
manner, as if the trooper were a window to be fitted up, he takes
from his pocket a pair of handcuffs. "This is a serious charge,
George, and such is my duty."

The trooper flushes angrily and hesitates a moment, but holds out
his two hands, clasped together, and says, "There! Put them on!"

Mr. Bucket adjusts them in a moment. "How do you find them? Are
they comfortable? If not, say so, for I wish to make things as
pleasant as is consistent with my duty, and I've got another pair
in my pocket." This remark he offers like a most respectable
tradesman anxious to execute an order neatly and to the perfect
satisfaction of his customer. "They'll do as they are? Very well!
Now, you see, George"--he takes a cloak from a corner and begins
adjusting it about the trooper's neck--"I was mindful of your
feelings when I come out, and brought this on purpose. There!
Who's the wiser?"

"Only I," returns the trooper, "but as I know it, do me one more
good turn and pull my hat over my eyes."

"Really, though! Do you mean it? Ain't it a pity? It looks so."

"I can't look chance men in the face with these things on," Mr.
George hurriedly replies. "Do, for God's sake, pull my hat
forward."

So strongly entreated, Mr. Bucket complies, puts his own hat on,
and conducts his prize into the streets, the trooper marching on as
steadily as usual, though with his head less erect, and Mr. Bucket
steering him with his elbow over the crossings and up the turnings.

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