Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers
“What d’ye mean? What are you hooroaring at? What do you want
to convey to your own father, you young Rip? This boy is a getting
too many for me!” said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. “Him and
his hooroars! Don’t let me hear no more of you, or you shall feel
some more of me. D’ye hear?” “I warn’t doing no harm,” Young
Jerry protested, rubbing his cheek.
“Drop it then,” said Mr. Cruncher; “I won’t have none of Your no
harms. Get a top of that there seat, and look at the crowd.
His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawling
and hissing round a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, in
which mourning coach there was only one mourner, dressed in the
dingy trappings that were considered essential to the dignity of the
position. The position appeared by no means to please him,
however, with an increasing rabble surrounding the coach,
deriding him, making grimaces at him, and incessantly groaning
and calling out: “Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!” with many
compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat.
Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr. Cruncher;
he always pricked up his senses, and became excited, when a
funeral passed Tellson’s. Naturally, therefore, a funeral with this
uncommon attendance excited him greatly, and he asked of the
first man who ran against him: “What is it, brother? What’s it
about?” “I don’t know,” said the man. “Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!” He
asked another man. “Who is it?” “I don’t know,” returned the man,
clapping his hands to his mouth nevertheless, and vociferating in a
surprising heat and with the greatest ardour, “Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst!
Spi-ies!” At length, a person better informed on the merits of the
case, tumbled against him, and from this person he learned that the
funeral was the funeral of one Roger Cly.
“Was He a spy?” asked Mr. Cruncher.
“Old Bailey spy,” returned his informant. “Yaha! Tst! Yah! Old
Bailey Spi-iies!” “Why, to be sure!” exclaimed Jerry, recalling the
Trial at which he had assisted. “I’ve seen him. Dead, is he?” “Dead
as mutton,” returned the other, “and can’t be too dead. Have ‘em
out, there! Spies! Pull ‘em out, there! Spies!” The idea was so
acceptable in the prevalent absence of any idea, that the crowd
caught it up with eagerness, and loudly repeating the suggestion to
have ‘em out, and to pull ‘em out, mobbed the two vehicles so
closely that they came to a stop. On the crowd’s opening the coach
doors, the one mourner scuffled out of himself and was in their
hands for a moment; but he was so alert, and made such good use
of his time, that in another moment he was scouring away up a
bye-street, after shedding his cloak, hat, long hatband, white
pocket-handkerchief, and other symbolical tears.