Mrs Mould was greatly interested.
‘Here, my dear. You can stand upon the
door-step,’ said Mould, ’and take a look
at him. Ha! There he is. Where’s
my glass? Oh! all right. I’ve got
it. Do you see him, my dear?’
‘Quite plain,’ said Mrs Mould.
‘Upon my life, you know, this is a very singular
circumstance,’ said Mould, quite delighted.
’This is the sort of thing, my dear, I wouldn’t
have missed on any account. It tickles one.
It’s interesting. It’s almost a little
play, you know. Ah! There he is! To
be sure. Looks poorly, Mrs M., don’t he?’
Mrs Mould assented.
‘He’s coming our way, perhaps, after all,’
said Mould. ’Who knows! I feel as
if I ought to show him some little attention, really.
He don’t seem a stranger to me. I’m
very much inclined to move my hat, my dear.’
‘He’s looking hard this way,’ said
Mrs Mould.
‘Then I will!’ cried Mould. ’How
d’ye do, sir! I wish you good day.
Ha! He bows too. Very gentlemanly.
Mrs Gamp has the cards in her pocket, I have no doubt.
This is very singular, my dear—and very
pleasant. I am not superstitious, but it really
seems as if one was destined to pay him those little
melancholy civilities which belong to our peculiar
line of business. There can be no kind of objection
to your kissing your hand to him, my dear.’
Mrs Mould did so.
‘Ha!’ said Mould. ’He’s
evidently gratified. Poor fellow! I am quite
glad you did it, my love. Bye bye, Mrs Gamp!’
waving his hand. ’There he goes; there
he goes!’
So he did; for the coach rolled off as the words were
spoken. Mr and Mrs Mould, in high good humour,
went their merry way. Mr Bailey retired with
Poll Sweedlepipe as soon as possible; but some little
time elapsed before he could remove his friend from
the ground, owing to the impression wrought upon the
barber’s nerves by Mrs Prig, whom he pronounced,
in admiration of her beard, to be a woman of transcendent
charms.
When the light cloud of bustle hanging round the coach
was thus dispersed, Nadgett was seen in the darkest
box of the Bull coffee-room, looking wistfully up
at the clock—as if the man who never appeared
were a little behind his time.
Proves that changes may be
rung in the best-regulated
families, and that Mr PECKNIFF
was A special hand at A triple-Bob-major
As the surgeon’s first care after amputating
a limb, is to take up the arteries the cruel knife
has severed, so it is the duty of this history, which
in its remorseless course has cut from the Pecksniffian
trunk its right arm, Mercy, to look to the parent
stem, and see how in all its various ramifications
it got on without her.
