Hall. These occasions, however, have been few and far apart: Dnrdles being as seldom drunk as sober. For the rest, he is an old bachelor, and he lives in a little antiquated hole of a house that was never finished: supposed to be built, so far, of stones stolen from the city wall. To this abode there is an approach, ankle-deep in stone chips, resembling a petrified grove of tombstones, urns, draperies, and broken columns, in all stages of sculpture. Herein, two journeymen incessantly chip, while other two journeymen, who face each other, incessantly saw stone; dipping as regularly in and out of their sheltering sentry-boxes, as if they were mechanical figures emblematical of Time and Death. To Durdles, when he has consumed his glass of port, Mr. Sapsea entrusts that precious effort of his Muse. Durdles unfeelingly takes out his two-foot rule, and measures the lines calmly, alloying them with stone-grit.
"This is for the monument, is it, Mr. Sapsea?"
"The Inscription. Yes." Mr. Sapsea waits for its effect on a common mind.
"It'll come in to a eighth of a inch," says Durdles. "Your servant, Mr. Jasper. Hope I see you well."
"How are you, Durdles?"
"I've got a touch of the Tombatism on me, Mr. Jasper, but that I must expect."
"You mean the Rheumatism," says Sapsea, in a sharp tone. (He is nettled by having his composition so mechanically received.)
"No, I don't. I mean, Mr. Sapsea, the Tombatism. It's another sort from Eheumatism. Mr. Jasper knows what Durdles means. You get among them Tombs afore it's well light on a winter morning, and keep on, as the Catechism says, a-walking in the same all the days of your life, and you'll know what Durdles means."
"It is a bitter cold place," Mr. Jasper assents, with an antipathetic shiver.
"And if it's bitter cold for you, up in the chancel, with a lot of live breath smoking out about you, what the bitterness is to Durdles, down in the crypt among the earthy damps there, and the dead breath of the old 'uns," returns that individual, "Durdles leaves you to judge.—Is this to be put in hand at once, Mr. Sapsea?"
Mr. Sapsea, with an Author's anxiety to rush into publication, replies that it cannot be out of hand too soon.
"You had better let me have the key, then," says Durdles.
"Why, man, it is not to be put inside the monument!"
"Durdles knows where it's to be put, Mr. Sapsea; no man better. Ask 'ere a man in Cloisterham whether Durdles knows his work."
Mr. Sapsea rises, takes a key from a drawer, unlocks an iron safe let into the wall, and takes from it another key.
"When Durdles puts a touch or a finish upon his work, no matter where, inside or outside, Durdles likes to look at his work all round, and see that his work is a doing him credit," Durdles explains, doggedly.
