The Chimes
fight, in which, if any judgment might be founded on the constantly-increasing shortness of his breath, and the deepening purple of his face, he was always getting the worst of it.
“So it’s blowing, and sleeting, and threatening snow; and it’s dark, and very cold, is it, my dear?” said Mr. Tugby, looking at the fire, and reverting to the cream and marrow of his temporary elevation.
“Hard weather indeed,” returned his wife, shaking her head. “Aye, aye! Years,” said Mr. Tugby, “are like Christians in that respect. Some of ’em die hard; some of ’em die easy. This one hasn’t many days to run, and is making a fight for it. I like him all the better. There’s a customer, my love!”
Attentive to the rattling door, Mrs. Tugby had already risen.
“Now then!” said that lady, passing out into the little shop. “What’s wanted? Oh! I beg your pardon, sir, I’m sure. I didn’t think it was you.”
She made this apology to a gentleman in black, who, with his wristbands tucked up, and his hat cocked loungingly on one side, and his hands in his pockets, sat down astride on the table-beer barrel, and nodded in return.
“This is a bad business up-stairs, Mrs. Tugby,” said the gentleman. “The man can’t live.”
“Not the back-attic can’t!” cried Tugby, coming out into the shop to join in the conference.
“The back-attic, Mr. Tugby,” said the gentleman, “is106
