bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第136章
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the same having been induced by Mrs Snagsby’s screaming。 She
has her own supper of bread and cheese to hand to Jo； with whom
she ventures to interchange a word or so； for the first time。
“Here’s something to eat； poor boy；” says Guster。
“Thank’ee； mum；” says Jo。
“Are you hungry？”
“Jist！” says Jo。
“What’s gone of your father and your mother； eh？”
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Jo stops in the middle of a bite； and looks petrified。 For this
orphan charge of the Christian Saint whose shrine was at Tooting；
has patted him on the shoulder； and it is the first time in his life
that any decent hand has been so laid upon him。
“I never know’d nothink about ’em；” says Jo。
“No more didn’t I of mine；” cries Guster。 She is repressing
symptoms favourable to the fit； when she seems to take alarm at
something； and vanishes down the stairs。
“Jo；” whispers the law…stationer softly； as the boy lingers on the
step。
“Here I am； Mr Snagsby。”
“I didn’t know you were gone—there’s another half…crown； Jo。
It was quite right of you to say nothing about the lady the other
night when we were out together。 It would breed trouble。 You
can’t be too quiet； Jo。”
“I am fly； master！”
And so； good night。
A ghostly shade； frilled and night…capped； follows the law…
stationer to the room he came from； and glides higher up。 And
henceforth he begins； go where he will； to be attended by another
shadow than his own； hardly less constant than his own； hardly
less quiet than his own。 And into whatsoever atmosphere of
secrecy his own shadow may pass； let all concerned in the secrecy
beware！ For the watchful Mrs Snagsby is there too—bone of his
bone； flesh of his flesh； shadow of his shadow。
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Chapter 26
Sharpshooters
intry morning； looking with dull eyes and sallow face
Wupon the neighbourhood of Leicester Square； finds its
inhabitants unwilling to get out of bed。 Many of them
are not early risers at the brightest of times； being birds of night
who roost when the sun is high； and are wide awake and keen for
prey when the stars shine out。 Behind dingy blind and curtain； in
upper story and garret； skulking more or less under false names；
false hair； false titles； false jewellery； and false histories； a colony
of brigands lie in their first sleep。 Gentlemen of the green baize
road who could discourse； from personal experience； of foreign
galleys； and home treadmills； spies of strong governments that
eternally quake with weakness and miserable fear； broken
traitors； cowards； bullies； gamesters； shufflers； swindlers； and false
witnesses； some not unmarked by the branding…iron； beneath
their dirty braid； all with more cruelty in them than was in Nero；
and more crime than is in Newgate。 For； howsoever bad the devil
can be in fustian or smock…frock （and he can be very bad in both）
he is a more designing； callous； and intolerable devil when he
sticks a pin in his shirt…front； calls himself a gentleman； backs a
card or colour； plays a game or so of billiards； and knows a little
about bills and promissory notes； than in any other form he wears。
And in such form Mr Bucket shall find him； when he will；
pervading the tributary channels of Leicester Square。
But the wintry morning wants him not and wakes him not。 It
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wakes Mr George of the Shooting Gallery； and his Familiar。 They
arise； roll up and stow away their mattresses。 Mr George； having
shaved himself before a looking…glass of minute proportions； then
marches out； bare…headed and bare…chested； to the Pump； in the
little yard； and anon comes back shining with yellow soap； friction；
drifting rain； and exceedingly cold water。 As he rubs himself upon
a large jack…towel； blowing like a military sort of diver just come
up： his crisp hair curling tighter and tighter on his sunburnt
temples； the more he rubs it； so that it looks as if it never could be
loosened by any less coercive instrument than an iron rake or a
curry…comb—as he rubs； and puffs； and polishes； and blows；
turning his head from side to side； the more conveniently to
excoriate his throat； and standing with his body well bent forward；
to keep the wet from his martial legs—Phil； on his knees lighting a
fire； looks round as if it were enough washing for him to see all
that done； and sufficient renovation； for one day； to take in the
superfluous health his master throws off。
When Mr George is dry； he goes to work to brush his head with
two hard brushes at once； to that unmerciful degree that Phil；
shouldering his way round the gallery in the act of sweeping it；
winks with sympathy。 This chafing over； the ornamental part of
Mr George’s toilette is soon performed。 He fills his pipe； lights it；
and marches up and down smoking； as his custom is； while Phil；
raising a powerful odour of hot rolls and coffee； prepares
breakfast。 He smokes gravely； and marches in slow time。 Perhaps
this morning’s pipe is devoted to the memory of Gridley in his
grave。
“And so； Phil；” says George of the Shooting Gallery； after
several turns in silence； “you were dreaming of the country last
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night？”
Phil； by the bye； said as much in a tone of surprise； as he
scrambled out of bed。
“Yes； guv’ner。”
“What was it like？”
“I hardly know what it was like； guv’ner；” says Phil；
considering。
“How did you know it was the country？”
“On accounts of the grass； I think。 And the swans upon it；” says
Phil； after further consideration。
“What were the swans doing on the grass？”
“They was a eating of it； I expect；” says Phil。
The master resumes his march； and the man resumes his
preparation of breakfast。 It is not necessarily a lengthened
preparation； being limited to the setting forth of very simple
breakfast requisites for two； and the broiling of a rasher of bacon
at the fire in the rusty grate； but as Phil has to sidle round a
considerable part of the gallery for every object he wants； and
never brings two objects at once；
