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- Чарльз Диккенс
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"
Sure
?
"
Judy
answers
with
a
nod
of
deepest
meaning
and
calls
,
as
she
scrapes
the
butter
on
the
loaf
with
every
precaution
against
waste
and
cuts
it
into
slices
,
"
You
,
Charley
,
where
are
you
?
"
Timidly
obedient
to
the
summons
,
a
little
girl
in
a
rough
apron
and
a
large
bonnet
,
with
her
hands
covered
with
soap
and
water
and
a
scrubbing
brush
in
one
of
them
,
appears
,
and
curtsys
.
"
What
work
are
you
about
now
?
"
says
Judy
,
making
an
ancient
snap
at
her
like
a
very
sharp
old
beldame
.
"
I
’
m
a
-
cleaning
the
upstairs
back
room
,
miss
,
"
replies
Charley
.
"
Mind
you
do
it
thoroughly
,
and
don
’
t
loiter
.
Shirking
won
’
t
do
for
me
.
Make
haste
!
Go
along
!
"
cries
Judy
with
a
stamp
upon
the
ground
.
"
You
girls
are
more
trouble
than
you
’
re
worth
,
by
half
.
"
On
this
severe
matron
,
as
she
returns
to
her
task
of
scraping
the
butter
and
cutting
the
bread
,
falls
the
shadow
of
her
brother
,
looking
in
at
the
window
.
For
whom
,
knife
and
loaf
in
hand
,
she
opens
the
street
-
door
.
"
Aye
,
aye
,
Bart
!
"
says
Grandfather
Smallweed
.
"
Here
you
are
,
hey
?
"
"
Here
I
am
,
"
says
Bart
.
"
Been
along
with
your
friend
again
,
Bart
?
"
Small
nods
.
"
Dining
at
his
expense
,
Bart
?
"
Small
nods
again
.
"
That
’
s
right
.
Live
at
his
expense
as
much
as
you
can
,
and
take
warning
by
his
foolish
example
.
That
’
s
the
use
of
such
a
friend
.
The
only
use
you
can
put
him
to
,
"
says
the
venerable
sage
.
His
grandson
,
without
receiving
this
good
counsel
as
dutifully
as
he
might
,
honours
it
with
all
such
acceptance
as
may
lie
in
a
slight
wink
and
a
nod
and
takes
a
chair
at
the
tea
-
table
.
The
four
old
faces
then
hover
over
teacups
like
a
company
of
ghastly
cherubim
,
Mrs
.
Smallweed
perpetually
twitching
her
head
and
chattering
at
the
trivets
and
Mr
.
Smallweed
requiring
to
be
repeatedly
shaken
up
like
a
large
black
draught
.
"
Yes
,
yes
,
"
says
the
good
old
gentleman
,
reverting
to
his
lesson
of
wisdom
.
"
That
’
s
such
advice
as
your
father
would
have
given
you
,
Bart
.
You
never
saw
your
father
.
More
’
s
the
pity
.
He
was
my
true
son
.
"
Whether
it
is
intended
to
be
conveyed
that
he
was
particularly
pleasant
to
look
at
,
on
that
account
,
does
not
appear
.
"
He
was
my
true
son
,
"
repeats
the
old
gentleman
,
folding
his
bread
and
butter
on
his
knee
,
"
a
good
accountant
,
and
died
fifteen
years
ago
.
"
Mrs
.
Smallweed
,
following
her
usual
instinct
,
breaks
out
with
"
Fifteen
hundred
pound
.
Fifteen
hundred
pound
in
a
black
box
,
fifteen
hundred
pound
locked
up
,
fifteen
hundred
pound
put
away
and
hid
!
"
Her
worthy
husband
,
setting
aside
his
bread
and
butter
,
immediately
discharges
the
cushion
at
her
,
crushes
her
against
the
side
of
her
chair
,
and
falls
back
in
his
own
,
overpowered
.
His
appearance
,
after
visiting
Mrs
.
Smallweed
with
one
of
these
admonitions
,
is
particularly
impressive
and
not
wholly
prepossessing
,
firstly
because
the
exertion
generally
twists
his
black
skull
-
cap
over
one
eye
and
gives
him
an
air
of
goblin
rakishness
,
secondly
because
he
mutters
violent
imprecations
against
Mrs
.
Smallweed
,
and
thirdly
because
the
contrast
between
those
powerful
expressions
and
his
powerless
figure
is
suggestive
of
a
baleful
old
malignant
who
would
be
very
wicked
if
he
could
.
All
this
,
however
,
is
so
common
in
the
Smallweed
family
circle
that
it
produces
no
impression
.
The
old
gentleman
is
merely
shaken
and
has
his
internal
feathers
beaten
up
,
the
cushion
is
restored
to
its
usual
place
beside
him
,
and
the
old
lady
,
perhaps
with
her
cap
adjusted
and
perhaps
not
,
is
planted
in
her
chair
again
,
ready
to
be
bowled
down
like
a
ninepin
.
Some
time
elapses
in
the
present
instance
before
the
old
gentleman
is
sufficiently
cool
to
resume
his
discourse
,
and
even
then
he
mixes
it
up
with
several
edifying
expletives
addressed
to
the
unconscious
partner
of
his
bosom
,
who
holds
communication
with
nothing
on
earth
but
the
trivets
.
As
thus
:
"
If
your
father
,
Bart
,
had
lived
longer
,
he
might
have
been
worth
a
deal
of
money
—
you
brimstone
chatterer
!
—
but
just
as
he
was
beginning
to
build
up
the
house
that
he
had
been
making
the
foundations
for
,
through
many
a
year
—
you
jade
of
a
magpie
,
jackdaw
,
and
poll
-
parrot
,
what
do
you
mean
!
—
he
took
ill
and
died
of
a
low
fever
,
always
being
a
sparing
and
a
spare
man
,
full
of
business
care
—
I
should
like
to
throw
a
cat
at
you
instead
of
a
cushion
,
and
I
will
too
if
you
make
such
a
confounded
fool
of
yourself
!
—
and
your
mother
,
who
was
a
prudent
woman
as
dry
as
a
chip
,
just
dwindled
away
like
touchwood
after
you
and
Judy
were
born
—
you
are
an
old
pig
.
You
are
a
brimstone
pig
.
You
’
re
a
head
of
swine
!
"
Judy
,
not
interested
in
what
she
has
often
heard
,
begins
to
collect
in
a
basin
various
tributary
streams
of
tea
,
from
the
bottoms
of
cups
and
saucers
and
from
the
bottom
of
the
tea
-
pot
for
the
little
charwoman
’
s
evening
meal
.
In
like
manner
she
gets
together
,
in
the
iron
bread
-
basket
,
as
many
outside
fragments
and
worn
-
down
heels
of
loaves
as
the
rigid
economy
of
the
house
has
left
in
existence
.
"
But
your
father
and
me
were
partners
,
Bart
,
"
says
the
old
gentleman
,
"
and
when
I
am
gone
,
you
and
Judy
will
have
all
there
is
.
It
’
s
rare
for
you
both
that
you
went
out
early
in
life
—
Judy
to
the
flower
business
,
and
you
to
the
law
.
You
won
’
t
want
to
spend
it
.
You
’
ll
get
your
living
without
it
,
and
put
more
to
it
.
When
I
am
gone
,
Judy
will
go
back
to
the
flower
business
and
you
’
ll
still
stick
to
the
law
.
"
One
might
infer
from
Judy
’
s
appearance
that
her
business
rather
lay
with
the
thorns
than
the
flowers
,
but
she
has
in
her
time
been
apprenticed
to
the
art
and
mystery
of
artificial
flower
-
making
.
A
close
observer
might
perhaps
detect
both
in
her
eye
and
her
brother
’
s
,
when
their
venerable
grandsire
anticipates
his
being
gone
,
some
little
impatience
to
know
when
he
may
be
going
,
and
some
resentful
opinion
that
it
is
time
he
went
.
"
Now
,
if
everybody
has
done
,
"
says
Judy
,
completing
her
preparations
,
"
I
’
ll
have
that
girl
in
to
her
tea
.
She
would
never
leave
off
if
she
took
it
by
herself
in
the
kitchen
.
"
Charley
is
accordingly
introduced
,
and
under
a
heavy
fire
of
eyes
,
sits
down
to
her
basin
and
a
Druidical
ruin
of
bread
and
butter
.
In
the
active
superintendence
of
this
young
person
,
Judy
Smallweed
appears
to
attain
a
perfectly
geological
age
and
to
date
from
the
remotest
periods
.
Her
systematic
manner
of
flying
at
her
and
pouncing
on
her
,
with
or
without
pretence
,
whether
or
no
,
is
wonderful
,
evincing
an
accomplishment
in
the
art
of
girl
-
driving
seldom
reached
by
the
oldest
practitioners
.
"
Now
,
don
’
t
stare
about
you
all
the
afternoon
,
"
cries
Judy
,
shaking
her
head
and
stamping
her
foot
as
she
happens
to
catch
the
glance
which
has
been
previously
sounding
the
basin
of
tea
,
"
but
take
your
victuals
and
get
back
to
your
work
.
"
"
Yes
,
miss
,
"
says
Charley
.
"
Don
’
t
say
yes
,
"
returns
Miss
Smallweed
,
"
for
I
know
what
you
girls
are
.
Do
it
without
saying
it
,
and
then
I
may
begin
to
believe
you
.
"
Charley
swallows
a
great
gulp
of
tea
in
token
of
submission
and
so
disperses
the
Druidical
ruins
that
Miss
Smallweed
charges
her
not
to
gormandize
,
which
"
in
you
girls
,
"
she
observes
,
is
disgusting
.
Charley
might
find
some
more
difficulty
in
meeting
her
views
on
the
general
subject
of
girls
but
for
a
knock
at
the
door
.
"
See
who
it
is
,
and
don
’
t
chew
when
you
open
it
!
"
cries
Judy
.
The
object
of
her
attentions
withdrawing
for
the
purpose
,
Miss
Smallweed
takes
that
opportunity
of
jumbling
the
remainder
of
the
bread
and
butter
together
and
launching
two
or
three
dirty
tea
-
cups
into
the
ebb
-
tide
of
the
basin
of
tea
as
a
hint
that
she
considers
the
eating
and
drinking
terminated
.
"
Now
!
Who
is
it
,
and
what
’
s
wanted
?
"
says
the
snappish
Judy
.
It
is
one
Mr
.
George
,
it
appears
.
Without
other
announcement
or
ceremony
,
Mr
.
George
walks
in
.
"
Whew
!
"
says
Mr
.
George
.
"
You
are
hot
here
.
Always
a
fire
,
eh
?
Well
!
Perhaps
you
do
right
to
get
used
to
one
.
"
Mr
.
George
makes
the
latter
remark
to
himself
as
he
nods
to
Grandfather
Smallweed
.
"
Ho
!
It
’
s
you
!
"
cries
the
old
gentleman
.
"
How
de
do
?
How
de
do
?
"
"
Middling
,
"
replies
Mr
.
George
,
taking
a
chair
.
"
Your
granddaughter
I
have
had
the
honour
of
seeing
before
;
my
service
to
you
,
miss
.
"
"
This
is
my
grandson
,
"
says
Grandfather
Smallweed
.
"
You
ha
’
n
’
t
seen
him
before
.
He
is
in
the
law
and
not
much
at
home
.
"
"
My
service
to
him
,
too
!
He
is
like
his
sister
.
He
is
very
like
his
sister
.
He
is
devilish
like
his
sister
,
"
says
Mr
.
George
,
laying
a
great
and
not
altogether
complimentary
stress
on
his
last
adjective
.
"
And
how
does
the
world
use
you
,
Mr
.
George
?
"
Grandfather
Smallweed
inquires
,
slowly
rubbing
his
legs
.
"
Pretty
much
as
usual
.
Like
a
football
.
"
He
is
a
swarthy
brown
man
of
fifty
,
well
made
,
and
good
looking
,
with
crisp
dark
hair
,
bright
eyes
,
and
a
broad
chest
.
His
sinewy
and
powerful
hands
,
as
sunburnt
as
his
face
,
have
evidently
been
used
to
a
pretty
rough
life
.
What
is
curious
about
him
is
that
he
sits
forward
on
his
chair
as
if
he
were
,
from
long
habit
,
allowing
space
for
some
dress
or
accoutrements
that
he
has
altogether
laid
aside
.
His
step
too
is
measured
and
heavy
and
would
go
well
with
a
weighty
clash
and
jingle
of
spurs
.
He
is
close
-
shaved
now
,
but
his
mouth
is
set
as
if
his
upper
lip
had
been
for
years
familiar
with
a
great
moustache
;
and
his
manner
of
occasionally
laying
the
open
palm
of
his
broad
brown
hand
upon
it
is
to
the
same
effect
.
Altogether
one
might
guess
Mr
.
George
to
have
been
a
trooper
once
upon
a
time
.
A
special
contrast
Mr
.
George
makes
to
the
Smallweed
family
.
Trooper
was
never
yet
billeted
upon
a
household
more
unlike
him
.
It
is
a
broadsword
to
an
oyster
-
knife
.
His
developed
figure
and
their
stunted
forms
,
his
large
manner
filling
any
amount
of
room
and
their
little
narrow
pinched
ways
,
his
sounding
voice
and
their
sharp
spare
tones
,
are
in
the
strongest
and
the
strangest
opposition
.
As
he
sits
in
the
middle
of
the
grim
parlour
,
leaning
a
little
forward
,
with
his
hands
upon
his
thighs
and
his
elbows
squared
,
he
looks
as
though
,
if
he
remained
there
long
,
he
would
absorb
into
himself
the
whole
family
and
the
whole
four
-
roomed
house
,
extra
little
back
-
kitchen
and
all
.
"
Do
you
rub
your
legs
to
rub
life
into
’
em
?
"
he
asks
of
Grandfather
Smallweed
after
looking
round
the
room
.
"
Why
,
it
’
s
partly
a
habit
,
Mr
.
George
,
and
—
yes
—
it
partly
helps
the
circulation
,
"
he
replies
.
"
The
cir
-
cu
-
la
-
tion
!
"
repeats
Mr
.
George
,
folding
his
arms
upon
his
chest
and
seeming
to
become
two
sizes
larger
.
"
Not
much
of
that
,
I
should
think
.
"
"
Truly
I
’
m
old
,
Mr
.
George
,
"
says
Grandfather
Smallweed
.
"
But
I
can
carry
my
years
.
I
’
m
older
than
HER
,
"
nodding
at
his
wife
,
"
and
see
what
she
is
?
You
’
re
a
brimstone
chatterer
!
"
with
a
sudden
revival
of
his
late
hostility
.
"
Unlucky
old
soul
!
"
says
Mr
.
George
,
turning
his
head
in
that
direction
.
"
Don
’
t
scold
the
old
lady
.
Look
at
her
here
,
with
her
poor
cap
half
off
her
head
and
her
poor
hair
all
in
a
muddle
.
Hold
up
,
ma
’
am
.
That
’
s
better
.
There
we
are
!
Think
of
your
mother
,
Mr
.
Smallweed
,
"
says
Mr
.
George
,
coming
back
to
his
seat
from
assisting
her
,
"
if
your
wife
an
’
t
enough
.
"
"
I
suppose
you
were
an
excellent
son
,
Mr
.
George
?
"
the
old
man
hints
with
a
leer
.
The
colour
of
Mr
.
George
’
s
face
rather
deepens
as
he
replies
,
"
Why
no
.
I
wasn
’
t
.
"
"
I
am
astonished
at
it
.
"
"
So
am
I
.
I
ought
to
have
been
a
good
son
,
and
I
think
I
meant
to
have
been
one
.
But
I
wasn
’
t
.
I
was
a
thundering
bad
son
,
that
’
s
the
long
and
the
short
of
it
,
and
never
was
a
credit
to
anybody
.
"
"
Surprising
!
"
cries
the
old
man
.
"
However
,
"
Mr
.
George
resumes
,
"
the
less
said
about
it
,
the
better
now
.
Come
!
You
know
the
agreement
.
Always
a
pipe
out
of
the
two
months
’
interest
!
(
Bosh
!
It
’
s
all
correct
.
You
needn
’
t
be
afraid
to
order
the
pipe
.
Here
’
s
the
new
bill
,
and
here
’
s
the
two
months
’
interest
-
money
,
and
a
devil
-
and
-
all
of
a
scrape
it
is
to
get
it
together
in
my
business
.
)
"
Mr
.
George
sits
,
with
his
arms
folded
,
consuming
the
family
and
the
parlour
while
Grandfather
Smallweed
is
assisted
by
Judy
to
two
black
leathern
cases
out
of
a
locked
bureau
,
in
one
of
which
he
secures
the
document
he
has
just
received
,
and
from
the
other
takes
another
similar
document
which
he
hands
to
Mr
.
George
,
who
twists
it
up
for
a
pipelight
.
As
the
old
man
inspects
,
through
his
glasses
,
every
up
-
stroke
and
down
-
stroke
of
both
documents
before
he
releases
them
from
their
leathern
prison
,
and
as
he
counts
the
money
three
times
over
and
requires
Judy
to
say
every
word
she
utters
at
least
twice
,
and
is
as
tremulously
slow
of
speech
and
action
as
it
is
possible
to
be
,
this
business
is
a
long
time
in
progress
.
When
it
is
quite
concluded
,
and
not
before
,
he
disengages
his
ravenous
eyes
and
fingers
from
it
and
answers
Mr
.
George
’
s
last
remark
by
saying
,
"
Afraid
to
order
the
pipe
?
We
are
not
so
mercenary
as
that
,
sir
.
Judy
,
see
directly
to
the
pipe
and
the
glass
of
cold
brandy
-
and
-
water
for
Mr
.
George
.
"
The
sportive
twins
,
who
have
been
looking
straight
before
them
all
this
time
except
when
they
have
been
engrossed
by
the
black
leathern
cases
,
retire
together
,
generally
disdainful
of
the
visitor
,
but
leaving
him
to
the
old
man
as
two
young
cubs
might
leave
a
traveller
to
the
parental
bear
.
"
And
there
you
sit
,
I
suppose
,
all
the
day
long
,
eh
?
"
says
Mr
.
George
with
folded
arms
.
"
Just
so
,
just
so
,
"
the
old
man
nods
.
"
And
don
’
t
you
occupy
yourself
at
all
?
"
"
I
watch
the
fire
—
and
the
boiling
and
the
roasting
—
"
"
When
there
is
any
,
"
says
Mr
.
George
with
great
expression
.
"
Just
so
.
When
there
is
any
.
"
"
Don
’
t
you
read
or
get
read
to
?
"
The
old
man
shakes
his
head
with
sharp
sly
triumph
.
"
No
,
no
.
We
have
never
been
readers
in
our
family
.
It
don
’
t
pay
.
Stuff
.
Idleness
.
Folly
.
No
,
no
!
"
"
There
’
s
not
much
to
choose
between
your
two
states
,
"
says
the
visitor
in
a
key
too
low
for
the
old
man
’
s
dull
hearing
as
he
looks
from
him
to
the
old
woman
and
back
again
.
"
I
say
!
"
in
a
louder
voice
.
"
I
hear
you
.
"
"
You
’
ll
sell
me
up
at
last
,
I
suppose
,
when
I
am
a
day
in
arrear
.
"
"
My
dear
friend
!
"
cries
Grandfather
Smallweed
,
stretching
out
both
hands
to
embrace
him
.
"
Never
!
Never
,
my
dear
friend
!
But
my
friend
in
the
city
that
I
got
to
lend
you
the
money
—
HE
might
!
"
"
Oh
!
You
can
’
t
answer
for
him
?
"
says
Mr
.
George
,
finishing
the
inquiry
in
his
lower
key
with
the
words
"
You
lying
old
rascal
!
"
"
My
dear
friend
,
he
is
not
to
be
depended
on
.
I
wouldn
’
t
trust
him
.
He
will
have
his
bond
,
my
dear
friend
.
"
"
Devil
doubt
him
,
"
says
Mr
.
George
.
Charley
appearing
with
a
tray
,
on
which
are
the
pipe
,
a
small
paper
of
tobacco
,
and
the
brandy
-
and
-
water
,
he
asks
her
,
"
How
do
you
come
here
!
You
haven
’
t
got
the
family
face
.
"
"
I
goes
out
to
work
,
sir
,
"
returns
Charley
.
The
trooper
(
if
trooper
he
be
or
have
been
)
takes
her
bonnet
off
,
with
a
light
touch
for
so
strong
a
hand
,
and
pats
her
on
the
head
.
"
You
give
the
house
almost
a
wholesome
look
.
It
wants
a
bit
of
youth
as
much
as
it
wants
fresh
air
.
"
Then
he
dismisses
her
,
lights
his
pipe
,
and
drinks
to
Mr
.
Smallweed
’
s
friend
in
the
city
—
the
one
solitary
flight
of
that
esteemed
old
gentleman
’
s
imagination
.
"
So
you
think
he
might
be
hard
upon
me
,
eh
?
"
"
I
think
he
might
—
I
am
afraid
he
would
.
I
have
known
him
do
it
,
"
says
Grandfather
Smallweed
incautiously
,
"
twenty
times
.
"
Incautiously
,
because
his
stricken
better
-
half
,
who
has
been
dozing
over
the
fire
for
some
time
,
is
instantly
aroused
and
jabbers
"
Twenty
thousand
pounds
,
twenty
twenty
-
pound
notes
in
a
money
-
box
,
twenty
guineas
,
twenty
million
twenty
per
cent
,
twenty
—
"
and
is
then
cut
short
by
the
flying
cushion
,
which
the
visitor
,
to
whom
this
singular
experiment
appears
to
be
a
novelty
,
snatches
from
her
face
as
it
crushes
her
in
the
usual
manner
.
"
You
’
re
a
brimstone
idiot
.
You
’
re
a
scorpion
—
a
brimstone
scorpion
!
You
’
re
a
sweltering
toad
.
You
’
re
a
chattering
clattering
broomstick
witch
that
ought
to
be
burnt
!
"
gasps
the
old
man
,
prostrate
in
his
chair
.
"
My
dear
friend
,
will
you
shake
me
up
a
little
?
"
Mr
.
