049 - Dutiful Friendship

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Bleak has by Charles Dickens chapter 49,

due to full friendship.

A great annual occasion has come round in the establishment of Mr. Matthew

magnet.

Otherwise, Lignum Vita X artillery man and present best soon 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 epic in the

musical instrument business by kissing the children with an extra smack before

breakfast, smoking an additional pipe after dinner and wondering toward 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 20 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 these.

Perhaps his exalted appreciation of the merits of the 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 in a pudding.

A young wool which is last birthday, Mr. Bagnet certainly did after observing

on his growth and general advancement, proceed in a moment of profound

reflection on the changes brought by time to examine him in the

catechism, accomplishing with extreme accuracy the question number one and

two. What is your name?

And who gave you that name?

But they're 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 specialty on that particular birthday and not a

general solemnity.

It is the old girl's birthday, and that is the greatest holiday and

greatest 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 fouls 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 hanker chief 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 fouls,

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 as honored guest.

Quebec and Malta lay the cloth for dinner while Woolwich, serving as

besiems him under his father, keeps the fouls revolving.

To these young scallions, Mrs. Bagnet occasionally imparts a wink or a

shake of the head or a crooked face as they make 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 fouls 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 monetary poke recalls him.

The stopped fouls 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?

All 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 you ever 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 tablecloth 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 humor of the fouls in not yielding any gravy

and also by the maid gravy acquiring no flavor and turning out of a flaxen complexion.

With a similar perverseness, the potatoes crumble off forks in the process of peeling,

upheaving from their centers in every direction as if they were subject to earthquakes.

The legs of the fouls too, all longer than can 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 guests place at his right hand.

It is well for the old girl that she has bought 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 marches.

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 drumsticks 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 patterns, 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 expedition of water, all in excess.

While the saturation of the young ladies themselves is almost too moving, a spectacle for Mrs.

Bagna 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

piece of mind she ever knows on the day of this delightful entertainment.

When Mr. Bagna takes his usual seat, every day the world gets a little weirder, and a lot more

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The sun shining birds are singing and all feels right in the world.

Until the season changes and suddenly you lose your motivation to get out of bed. In fact,

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The hands of the clock are very near to half past four as they market accurately Mr. Bagnant

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. Bagnant.

Happy returns to all, says Mr. George.

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

Come to me? Oh, you're so white George for you and look so shocked. Now don't he, Lignum?

George says Mr. Bagnant, 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 creature says Mrs. Bagnant 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 galley, but you're so quick Mrs. Bagnant.

You're right, the old girl says Mr. Bagnant is as quick, as powder.

And what's more, she's the subject of the day and will stick to her,

cries Mr. George. See here, I have brought a little brooch along with me. It is a poor thing you know,

but it's a keepsake. That's all the good it is Mrs. Bagnant. Mr. George produces his present,

which is greeted with admiring leapings and clappings by the young family and with a species

of referential admiration by Mr. Bagnant. Old girl says Mr. Bagnant. Tell him my opinion of it.

Why, it's a wonder George Mrs. Bagnant exclaims. It's the beautifulest thing that ever was seen.

Good says Mr. Bagnant, my opinion. It is so pretty George, cries Mrs. Bagnant,

turning it on all sides and holding it out at arm's length, that it seems to choice for me.

Bad says Mr. Bagnant, not my opinion, but whatever it is, 100,000 thanks, old fellow says Mrs.

Bagnant, her eyes sparkling with pleasure and her hands stretched out to him. And though I have

been a cross grained 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. Bagnant looks over young Woolwich's head to see

it done, with an interest so maturely wooden, yet pleasantly childish, that Mrs. Bagnant 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 anyone 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. Bagnant 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 gut 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 yourself, George answers. I know that very well, Mrs. Bagnant. I'll tell you how,

one way and another, the blues have got to be too many for me.

Here was this poor lad, who was 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. Bagnant, 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. Oh poor creature, says Mrs. Bagnant. Then says the trooper, not yet lighting

his pipe, and passing his heavy hand over his hair. That brought up grisly 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 carbon, stuck in barrel,

standing up on end in his corner, hard and different, taking everything so evenly,

it made flesh and blood tingle. I do assure you. My advice to you returns Mrs. Bagnant

is to light your pipe and tingle that way. It's wholesome and comfortable, and better for the

health altogether. Your 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. Bagnant to defer

the ceremony of drinking Mrs. Bagnant's health, always given by himself on these occasions

in a speech of exemplary turseness. But the young ladies having composed what Mr. Bagnant

is in the habit of calling the mixture, and George's pipe, being now in a glow, Mr. Bagnant

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 another. Here's towards her. The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm,

Mrs. Bagnant returns thanks in a need 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 holy unexpected exclamation. Here's a man. Here is a man,

much to the astonishment of the little company, looking in at the parlor 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 matter that stamps him a remarkable man. George says the man nodding,

how do you find yourself? Why, its 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, Vian Lincheller,

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 acquire 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 Walter on his knees. You pretty deers, 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 them down at the figures of about eight and ten. Your very near, sir,

says Mrs. Bagmitt. I generally am near returns Mr. Bucket, being so fond of children. A friend of mine

has had nineteen of them, ma'am, all by one mother, and she's still and 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 maltis 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 violin

cellar 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. Bagmitt 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 to 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 day, but

they'll be upon the minds of some of the young fellows, some of these days, and make them precious

low-spirited. I ain't much of a prophet, but I can tell you that, ma'am. Mrs. Bagmitt, quite

charmed, hopes Mr. Bucket has a family of his own. Their ma'am says Mr. Bucket. Would you believe it?

No, I haven't. My wife and a larger constitute my family. Mrs. Bucket is as fond of children as

myself and as wishful to have him, but no. So it is, worldly goods are divided unequally and man

must not repine. What a very nice backyard, ma'am. Anyway, 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 to his friend Mr. George

and Pat's Mr. George affectionately on the shoulder. How are your spirits now, George?

All right, now returns the trooper. That's your sorts, 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 pipelights and with a listening face that is

particularly his own. But the son 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 his too old to be your by-man, I can certify at all events that he is not anybody

else's returns Mrs. Bagnant 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. Bagnant

smokes, installed satisfaction. This is an opportunity for Mrs. Bagnant 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. Bagnant suddenly interposes. Plays the five. Beautiful. Would you believe it,

governor? Says Mr. Bucket struck by the coincidence that when I was a boy, I played the five 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

must enlivened, beats time, and never fails to come in sharp with the burden. British grenadiers,

in short he shows so much musical taste that Mr. Bagnant 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 chant 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 behind-hand in the sociality of the evening, he complies and gives them,

believe me if all those endearing young charms. This ballad he informs Mrs. Bagnant,

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 as a man of so many resources and so easy to get on with,

that it is something to have made him known there. Mr. Bagnant becomes after another pipe,

so sensible of the value of his acquaintance that he solicits the honor 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. Bagnant with a warmth approaching to rapture, engages himself

for that day 12 months 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. Bagnant may before then

become in a manner, sisters, as he says himself, what is public life with our 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 and

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 a secret sympathy

of friendship, also rises. He doves upon the children to the last, and remembers the commission

he has undertaken for an absent friend. Respecting that second-hand,

file-inchular, governor, could you recommend me such a thing?

Scores, says Mr. Bagna.

I am obliged to you, returns Mr. Bucket, squeezing his hand. You are a friend in need.

A good tone mind you. My friend is a regular dab at it. He caught. 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 you 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. Bagna 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 it half after 10 tomorrow morning.

Perhaps you could name the figures of a few file-inchulers of a good tone, says Mr. Bucket.

Nothing easier. Mr. and Mrs. Bagna both engage to have the requisite information ready,

and even hint to each other at the practicality 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 from one of the

pleasantor evenings I've 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 Oldboy, says Mr. Bucket, taking his arm at the shop door.

Come along. As they go down the little street and the magnets pause for a minute looking after them,

Mrs. Bagna remarks to the worthy lignum that Mr. Bucket almost clings to George like,

and seems to be really fond of him. The neighboring streets being narrow and ill-paved,

it is a little inconvenient to walk there to a breast 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 endeavour to make things

pleasant tonight, 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 going to tell you what I want

you for. There has been a murder in Lincoln's infields, gentlemen of the name of Tokinghorn.

He was shot last night. I want you for that. The trooper sinks upon his 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. Tokinghorn 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 10 o'clock. Now, you know where you were last night at 10 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

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 at it 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 Deadlock, Baronette. 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 upholster 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 and 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 is steadily as usual, though with his head less erect and Mr. Bucket

steering him with his elbow over the crossings and up the turnings.

End of chapter 49