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 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 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 opinion.”

“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 fails 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.