court-yard gate, rendered them occasional service; and Jerry

(almost wholly transferred to them by Mr. Lorry) had become

their daily retainer, and had his bed there every night.

It was an ordinance of the Republic One and Indivisible, of

Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, that on the door or doorpost

of every house, the name of every inmate must be legibly

inscribed in letters of a certain size, at a certain convenient height

from the ground. Mr. Jerry Cruncher’s name, therefore, duly

embellished the door-post down below; and, as the afternoon

shadows deepened, the owner of that name himself appeared,

from overlooking a painter whom Doctor Manette had employed

to add to the list the name of Charles Evremonde, called Darnay.

In the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the

usual harmless ways of life were changed. In the Doctor’s little

household, as in very many others, the articles of daily

consumption that were wanted were purchased every evening, in

small quantities and at various small shops. To avoid attracting

notice, and to give as little occasion as possible for talk and envy,

was the general desire.

For some months past, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher had

discharged the office of purveyors; the former carrying the money;

the latter, the basket. Every afternoon at about the time when the

public lamps were lighted, they fared forth on this duty, and made

and brought home such purchases as were needful. Although Miss

Pross, through her long associations with a French family, might

have known as much of their language as of her own, if she had

had a mind, she had no mind in that direction; consequently she

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

knew no more of that “nonsense” (as she was pleased to call it)

than Mr. Cruncher did. So her manner of marketing was to plump

a noun-substantive at the head of a shop-keeper without any

introduction in the nature of an article, and, if it happened not to

be the name of the thing she wanted, to look round for that thing,

lay hold of it, and hold on by it until the bargain was concluded.

She always made a bargain for it, by holding up, as a statement of

its just price, one finger less than the merchant held up, whatever

his number might be.

“Now, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red

with felicity; “if you are ready, I am.”

Jerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross’s service. He had

worn all his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky head

down.

“There’s all manner of things wanted,” said Miss Pross, “and

we shall have a precious time of it. We want wine, among the rest.

Nice toasts these Redheads will be drinking, wherever we buy it.”

“It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I should

think,” retorted Jerry, “whether they drink your health or the Old

Un’s.”

“Who’s he?” said Miss Pross.

Mr. Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as