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 public-house, and smoked it,
looking in at the railings and maturely considering the spot.
“Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself 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
morality 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 wentures goes wrong
tonight, I shall make sure that you’ve been praying agin 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.”
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A Tale of Two Cities
“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 dissatisfaction.
“You and your yes, Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out
of his bread-and-butter, and seeming to help it down with a large
invisible oyster out of his saucer. “Ah! I think so. I believe you.”
“You were going out tonight?” asked his decent wife, when he
took another bite.
“Yes, I am.”
“May I go with you, father?” asked his son, briskly.
“No, you mayn’t. I’m a going—as your mother knows—a
fishing. That’s where I’m going to. Going a fishing.”
“Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty; don’t it, father?”
“Never you mind.”
“Shall you bring any fish home, father?”
“If I don’t, you’ll have short commons, tomorrow,” returned
that gentleman, shaking his head; “that’s questions enough for
you; I ain’t a going out, till you’ve been long a-bed.”
He devoted himself during the remainder of the evening to
keeping a most vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and sullenly
holding her in conversation that she might be prevented from
meditating any petitions to his disadvantage. With this view, he
urged his son to hold her in conversation also, and led the
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A Tale of Two Cities
unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling on any causes of
complaint he could bring against her, rather than he would leave
her for a moment to her own reflections. The devoutest person
could ha"};
