“What,” said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after

missing his mark“what are you up to, Aggerawayter?”

“I was only saying my prayers.”

“Saying your prayers! You’re a nice woman! What do you mean

by flopping yourself down and praying agin me?”

“I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.”

“You weren’t. And if you were, I won’t be took the liberty with.

Here! your mother’s a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying

agin your father’s prosperity. You’ve got a dutiful mother, you

have, my son. You’ve got a religious mother, you have, my boy:

going and flopping herself down, and praying that the bread-and-

butter may be snatched out of the mouth of her only child.”

Master Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and,

turning to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his

personal board.

“And what do you suppose, you conceited female,” said Mr.

Cruncher, with unconscious inconsistency, “that the worth of your

prayers may be? Name the price that you put your prayers at!”

“They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more

than that.”

“Worth no more than that,” repeated Mr. Cruncher. “They ain’t

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

worth much, then. Whether or no, I won’t be prayed agin, I tell

you. I can’t afford it. I’m not a going to be made unlucky by your

sneaking. If you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of

your husband and child, and not in opposition to ’em. If I had had

any but a unnat’ral wife, and this poor boy had had any but a

unnat’ral mother, I might have made some money last week

instead of being counterprayed and countermined and religiously

circumwented into the worst of luck. B-u-u-ust me!” said Mr.

Cruncher, who all this time had been putting on his clothes, “if I

ain’t, what with piety and one blowed thing and another, been

choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor devil of a

honest tradesman met with! Young Jerry, dress yourself, my boy,

and while I clean my boots keep an eye upon your mother now

and then, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call.

For, I tell you,” here he addressed his wife once more, “I won’t be

gone agin, in this matter. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, I’m

as sleepy as laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I

shouldn’t know, if it wasn’t for the pain in ’em, which was me and

which somebody else, yet I’m none the better for it in pocket; and

it’s my suspicion that you’ve been at it from morning to night to

prevent me from being the better for it in pocket, and I won’t put

up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you say now!”

Growling, in addition, such phrases as “Ah! yes! You’re

religious, too. You wouldn’t put yourself in opposition to the

interests of your husband and child, would you? Not you!” and

throwing off other sarcastic sparks from the whirling grindstone of

his indignation, Mr. Cruncher betook himself to his boot-cleaning

and his general preparation for business. In the meantime, his son,