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142 |
THE CHIMES. |
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"You're in spirits, Tugby, my dear," observed his wife
The firm was Tugby, late Chickenstalker.
"No," said Tugby. "No. Not particular. I'm a little elewated. The muffins came so pat!"
With that he chuckled until he was black in the face; and had so much ado to become any other colour, that his fat legs took the strangest excursions into the air. Nor were they reduced to anything like decorum until Mrs. Tugby had thumped him violently on the back, and shaken him as if he were a great bottle.
"Good gracious, goodness, lord-a-mercy bless and save the man !" cried Mrs. Tugby, in great terror. "What's he doing?"
Mr. Tugby wiped his eyes, and faintly repeated that he found himself a little elewated.
" Then don't be so again, that's a dear good soul," said Mrs. Tugby, " if you don't want to frighten me to death, with your struggling and fighting ! "
Mr. Tugby said he wouldn't, but his whole existence was a fight; in which, if any judgment might be founded on the constantly-in creasing shortness of his breath, and the deepening purple of his face, he was always getting the worst of it.
" So it's blowing, and sleeting, and threatening snow; and is dark, and very cold : is it, my dear ?" said Mr. Tugby, looking at the fire, and reverting to the cream and marrow of his temporary elevation.
" Hard weather indeed," returned his wife, shaking her head.
" Ay, ay! Years," said Mr. Tugby, " are like Christians in that respect. Some of 'em die hard; some of 'em die easy. This one hasn't many days to run, and is making a fight for it. I like him all the better. There's a customer, my love ! "
Attentive to the rattling door, Mrs. Tugby had already risen.
" Now then !" said that lady, passing out into the little shop. " What's wanted ? Oh ! I beg your pardon, Sir, I'm sure. I didn't think it wras you."
She made this apology to a gentleman in black, who, with his wristbands tucked up, and his hat cocked loungingly on one side, and his hands in his pockets, sat down astride on the table-beer barrel, and nodded in return.
"This is a bad business up stairs, Mrs. Tugby," said the gentleman. " The man can't live."
" Not the back-attic can't!" cried Tugby, coming out into the shop to join the conference.
" The back-attic, Mr. Tugby," said the gentleman, " is coming down stairs fast; and will be below the basement very soon."
Looking by turns at Tugby and his wife, he sounded the barrel |
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