Instantly Mrs. Bagnet put some pins into her mouth
and began pinning up her skirts all round a little
higher than the level of her grey cloak, which she
accomplished with surpassing dispatch and dexterity.
“Lignum,” said Mrs. Bagnet, “you
take care of the children, old man, and give me the
umbrella! I’m away to Lincolnshire to bring
that old lady here.”
“But, bless the woman,” cried my guardian
with his hand in his pocket, “how is she going?
What money has she got?”
Mrs. Bagnet made another application to her skirts
and brought forth a leathern purse in which she hastily
counted over a few shillings and which she then shut
up with perfect satisfaction.
“Never you mind for me, miss. I’m
a soldier’s wife and accustomed to travel my
own way. Lignum, old boy,” kissing him,
“one for yourself, three for the children.
Now I’m away into Lincolnshire after George’s
mother!”
And she actually set off while we three stood looking
at one another lost in amazement. She actually
trudged away in her grey cloak at a sturdy pace, and
turned the corner, and was gone.
“Mr. Bagnet,” said my guardian.
“Do you mean to let her go in that way?”
“Can’t help it,” he returned.
“Made her way home once from another quarter
of the world. With the same grey cloak.
And same umbrella. Whatever the old girl says,
do. Do it! Whenever the old girl says,
I’ll do it. She does it.”
“Then she is as honest and genuine as she looks,”
rejoined my guardian, “and it is impossible
to say more for her.”
“She’s Colour-Sergeant of the Nonpareil
battalion,” said Mr. Bagnet, looking at us over
his shoulder as he went his way also. “And
there’s not such another. But I never own
to it before her. Discipline must be maintained.”
The Track
Mr. Bucket and his fat forefinger are much in consultation
together under existing circumstances. When
Mr. Bucket has a matter of this pressing interest
under his consideration, the fat forefinger seems
to rise, to the dignity of a familiar demon.
He puts it to his ears, and it whispers information;
he puts it to his lips, and it enjoins him to secrecy;
he rubs it over his nose, and it sharpens his scent;
he shakes it before a guilty man, and it charms him
to his destruction. The Augurs of the Detective
Temple invariably predict that when Mr. Bucket and
that finger are in much conference, a terrible avenger
will be heard of before long.
Otherwise mildly studious in his observation of human
nature, on the whole a benignant philosopher not disposed
to be severe upon the follies of mankind, Mr. Bucket
pervades a vast number of houses and strolls about
an infinity of streets, to outward appearance rather
languishing for want of an object. He is in the
friendliest condition towards his species and will
drink with most of them. He is free with his
money, affable in his manners, innocent in his conversation—but
through the placid stream of his life there glides
an under-current of forefinger.
