He had raised the candle at arm’s length towards
one of the dark shelves, and Mr Wegg had turned to
look, when he broke off.
’The old gentleman was well known all round
here. There used to be stories about his having
hidden all kinds of property in those dust mounds.
I suppose there was nothing in ’em. Probably
you know, Mr Wegg?’
’Nothing in ’em,’ says Wegg, who
has never heard a word of this before.
‘Don’t let me detain you. Good night!’
The unfortunate Mr Venus gives him a shake of the
hand with a shake of his own head, and drooping down
in his chair, proceeds to pour himself out more tea.
Mr Wegg, looking back over his shoulder as he pulls
the door open by the strap, notices that the movement
so shakes the crazy shop, and so shakes a momentary
flare out of the candle, as that the babies—Hindoo,
African, and British—the ‘human warious’,
the French gentleman, the green glass-eyed cats, the
dogs, the ducks, and all the rest of the collection,
show for an instant as if paralytically animated;
while even poor little Cock Robin at Mr Venus’s
elbow turns over on his innocent side. Next moment,
Mr Wegg is stumping under the gaslights and through
the mud.
MR BOFFIN IN CONSULTATION
Whosoever had gone out of Fleet Street into the Temple
at the date of this history, and had wandered disconsolate
about the Temple until he stumbled on a dismal churchyard,
and had looked up at the dismal windows commanding
that churchyard until at the most dismal window of
them all he saw a dismal boy, would in him have beheld,
at one grand comprehensive swoop of the eye, the managing
clerk, junior clerk, common-law clerk, conveyancing
clerk, chancery clerk, every refinement and department
of clerk, of Mr Mortimer Lightwood, erewhile called
in the newspapers eminent solicitor.
Mr Boffin having been several times in communication
with this clerkly essence, both on its own ground
and at the Bower, had no difficulty in identifying
it when he saw it up in its dusty eyrie. To the
second floor on which the window was situated, he
ascended, much pre-occupied in mind by the uncertainties
besetting the Roman Empire, and much regretting the
death of the amiable Pertinax: who only last night
had left the Imperial affairs in a state of great
confusion, by falling a victim to the fury of the
praetorian guards.
‘Morning, morning, morning!’ said Mr Boffin,
with a wave of his hand, as the office door was opened
by the dismal boy, whose appropriate name was Blight.
‘Governor in?’
‘Mr Lightwood gave you an appointment, sir,
I think?’
‘I don’t want him to give it, you know,’
returned Mr Boffin; ’I’ll pay my way,
my boy.’
’No doubt, sir. Would you walk in?
Mr Lightwood ain’t in at the present moment,
but I expect him back very shortly. Would you
take a seat in Mr Lightwood’s room, sir, while
I look over our Appointment Book?’ Young Blight
made a great show of fetching from his desk a long
thin manuscript volume with a brown paper cover, and
running his finger down the day’s appointments,
murmuring, ’Mr Aggs, Mr Baggs, Mr Caggs, Mr
Daggs, Mr Faggs, Mr Gaggs, Mr Boffin. Yes, sir;
quite right. You are a little before your time,
sir. Mr Lightwood will be in directly.’
