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pulled down, and some area-railings had been torn up, to arm the
more belligerent spirits, a rumour got about that the Guards were
coming. Before this rumour, the crowd gradually melted away,
and perhaps the Guards came, and perhaps they never came, and
this was the usual progress of a mob.

Mr. Cruncher did not assist at the closing sports, but had remained
behind in the churchyard, to confer and condole with the
undertakers. The place had a soothing influence on him. He
procured a pipe from a neighbouring publichouse, and smoked it,
looking in at the railings and maturely considering the spot.
“Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself in his usual
way, “you see that there Cly that day, and you see with your own
eyes that he was a young ‘un and a straight made ‘un.”

Having smoked his pipe out, and ruminated a little longer, he
turned himself about, that he might appear, before the hour of
closing, on his station at Tellson’s.

Whether his meditations on mortality had touched his liver, or
whether his general health had been previously at all amiss, or
whether he desired to show a little attention to an eminent man, is
not so much to the purpose, as that he made a short call upon his
medical adviser-a distinguished surgeon-on his way back.

Young Jerry relieved his father with dutiful interest, and reported
No job in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient clerks came out,
the usual watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher and his son went home
to tea.

“Now, I tell you where it is!” said Mr. Cruncher to his wife, on
entering. “If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs goes wrong to-
night, I shall make sure that you’ve been praying again me, and I
shall work you for it just the same as if I seen you do it.” The
dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head.

“Why, you’re at it afore my face!” said Mr. Cruncher, with signs of
angry apprehension.

“I am saying nothing.” “Well, then; don’t meditate nothing. You
might as well flop as meditate. You may as well go again me one
way as another. Drop it altogether.” “Yes, Jerry.”

“Yes, Jerry,” repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to tea. “Ah! It is
yes, Jerry.

That’s about it. You may say yes, Jerry.” Mr. Cruncher had no
particular meaning in these sulky corroborations, but made use of
them, as people not unfrequently do, to express general ironical

“You and your yes, Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of
his breadand-butter, and seeming to help it down with a large
invisible oyster out of his saucer. “Ah! I think so. I believe you.”
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