The Chimes
between a walk and a jog-trot—with which a gentleman upon the smooth down-hill of life, wearing creaking boots, a watch-chain, and clean linen, may come out of his house; not only without any abatement of his dignity, but with an expression of having important and wealthy engagements elsewhere. “What’s the matter! What’s the matter!”
“You’re always a-being begged, and prayed, upon your bended knees you are,” said the footman with great emphasis to Trotty Veck, “to let our door-steps be. Why don’t you let ’em be? Can’t you let ’em be?”
“There! That’ll do, that’ll do!” said the gentleman. “Halloa there! Porter!” beckoning with his head to Trotty Veck. “Come here. What’s that? Your dinner?”
“Yes, sir,” said Trotty, leaving it behind him in a corner.
“Don’t leave it there,” exclaimed the gentleman. “Bring it here, bring it here. So! This is your dinner, is it?”
“Yes, sir,” repeated Trotty, looking with a fixed eye and a watery mouth, at the piece of tripe he had reserved for a last delicious tit-bit; which the gentleman was now turning over and over on the end of the fork.
Two other gentlemen had come out with him. One was a low-spirited gentleman of middle age, of a meagre habit, and a disconsolate face; who kept his hands continually in the pockets of his scanty pepper-and-salt trousers, very large and dog’s-eared from that custom; and was not particularly well brushed or washed. The other, a full-sized, sleek, well-conditioned gentle-24
