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TO the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool in Fleet Street with his grisly urchin beside him, a vast number and variety of objects in movement were every day presented. Who could sit upon anything in Fleet Street during the busy hours of the day, and not be dazed and deafened by two immense processions, one ever tending westward with the sun, the other ever tending eastward from the sun, both ever tending to the plains beyond the range of red and purple where the sun goes down!
With his straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher sat watching the two streams, like the heathen rustic who has for several centuries been on duty watching one stream--saving that Jerry had no expectation of their ever running dry. Nor would it have been an expectation of a hopeful kind, since Ball part of his income was derived from the pilotage of timid women (mostly of a full habit and past the middle of life) from Tellson's side of the tides to the opposite ore. Brief as such companionship was in every separate instance, Mr. Cruncher never failed to become so interested the lady as to express a strong desire to have the honour drinking her very good health. And it was from the gifts towed upon him towards the execution of this benevolent purpose, that he recruited his finances, as just now observed.
Time was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, and mused in the sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on stool in a public place, but not being a poet, mused as little as possible, and looked about him.
It fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when crowds were few, and belated women few, and when his affairs in general were so unprosperous as to awaken a strong suspicion in his breast that Mrs. Cruncher must have been `flopping' in some pointed manner, when an unusual concourse pouring down Fleet Street westward, attracted his attention. Looking that way, Mr. Cruncher made out that me kind of funeral was coming along, and that there was popular objection to this funeral, which engendered uproar.
`Young Jerry,' said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring, `it's a buryin'.'
`Hooroar, father!' cried Young Jerry.
The young gentleman uttered this exultant sound with mysterious significance. The elder gentleman took the cry so ill, that he watched his opportunity, and smote the young gentleman on the ear.
`What d'ye mean? What are you hooroaring at? What do you want to conwey to your own father, you young Rip? This boy is a getting too many for me!' said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. `Him and his hooroars. Don't let me hear no more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D'ye hear?'
`I warn't doing no harm,' Young Jerry protested, rubbing his cheek.
`Drop it then,' said Mr. Cruncher; `I won't have none of your no harms. Get atop of that there seat, and look at the crowd.'
His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawling and hissing round a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, in which mourning coach there was only one mourner, dressed in the dingy trappings that were considered essential to the dignity of the position. The position appeared by no means to please him, however, with an increasing rabble surrounding the coach, deriding him, making grimaces at him, and incessantly groaning and calling out: `Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!' with many compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat.
Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr. Cruncher; he always pricked up his senses, and became excited, when a funeral passed Tellson's. Naturally, therefore, a funeral with this uncommon attendance excited him greatly, and he asked of the first man who ran against him:
`What is it, brother? What's it about?'
`I don't know,' said the man. `Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!'
He asked another man. `Who is it?'
`I don't know,' returned the man, clapping his hands to his mouth nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and with the greatest ardour, `Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi-ies!'
At length, a person better informed on the merits of the case, tumbled against him, and from this person he learned that the funeral was the funeral of One Roger Cly.
`Was He a spy?' asked Mr. Cruncher.
`Old Bailey spy,' returned his informant. `Yaha Tst! Yah! Old Bailey Spi-i-ies!'
`Why, to be sure!' exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which he had assisted. `I've seen him. Dead, is he?'
`Dead as mutton,' returned the other, `and can't be too dead. Have `em out, there Spies! Pull `em out, there! Spies!'
The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of any idea, that the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and, loudly repeating the suggestion to have `em out, and to pull em out, mobbed the two vehicles so closely that they came to a stop. On the crowd's opening the coach doors, the one mourner scuffled out of himself and was in their hands for a moment; but he was so alert, and made such good use of his time, that in another moment he was scouring away up a bystreet, after shedding his cloak, hat, long hatband, white pocket handkerchief, and other symbolical tears.
These, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and wide with great enjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut up their shops; for a crowd in those times stopped at nothing, and was a monster much dreaded. They had already got the length of opening the hearse to take the coffin out, when some brighter genius proposed instead, its being escorted to destination amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions being much needed, this suggestion, too, was received with acclamation, and the coach was immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen out, while as many people got on the roof of the hearse as could by any exercise of ingenuity stick upon it. Among the first of these volunteers was Jerry Cruncher himself, who modestly concealed his spiky head from the observation of Tellson's, in the further corner of the mourning coach.
The officiating undertakers made some protest against these changes in the ceremonies; but, the river being alarmingly near, and several voices remarking on the efficacy of cold immersion in bringing refractory members of the profession to reason, the protest was faint and brief. The remodelled procession started, with a chimney-sweep driving the hearse--advised by the regular driver, who was perched beside him, under close inspection, for the purpose--and with a pieman, also attended by his cabinet minister, driving the mourning coach. A bear-leader, a popular street character of the time, was impressed as an additional ornament, before the cavalcade had gone far down the Strand; and his bear, who was black and very mangy, gave quite an Undertaking air to that part of the procession in which he walked.
Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and infinite caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went its way, recruiting at every step, and all the shops shutting up before it. Its destination was the old church of Saint Pancras, far off in the fields. It got there in course of time; insisted on pouring into the burial-ground; finally, accomplished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own way, and highly to its own satisfaction.
The dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under the necessity of providing some other entertainment for itself, another brighter genius (or perhaps the same) conceived the humour of impeaching casual passersby, as Old Bailey spies, and wreaking vengeance on them. Chase was given to some scores of inoffensive persons who had never been near the Old Bailey in their lives, in the realisation of this fancy, and they were roughly hustled and maltreated. The transition to the sport of window-breaking, and thence to the plundering of public-houses, was easy and natural. At last, after several hours, when
sundry summerhouses had been pulled dow and some area-railings had been torn up, to arm the more belligerent spirits, a rumour got about that the Guards we coming. Before this rumour, the crowd gradually melted away, and perhaps the Guards came, and perhaps they never came, and this was the usual progress of a mob.
Mr. Cruncher did not assist at the closing sports, hut had remained behind in the churchyard, to confer and condole with the undertakers. The place had a soothing influence on him. He procured a pipe from a neighbouring public house, and smoked it,
looking in at the railings and maturely considering the spot.
`Jerry,' said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself in his usual way, `you see that there Cly that day, and you see with your own eyes that he was a young `un and a straight made `un.'
Having smoked his pipe out, and ruminated a little longer, he turned himself about, that he might appear, before the hour of closing, on his station at Tellson's. Whether his meditations on mortality had touched his liver, or whether his general health had been previously at all amiss, or whether he desired to show a little attention to an eminent man, is not so much to the purpose, as that he made a short call upon his medical adviser--a distinguished surgeon--on his way back.
Young Jerry relieved his father with dutiful interest, and reported No job in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient clerks came Out, the usual watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher and his son went home to tea.
`Now, I tell you where it is!' said Mr. Cruncher to his wife, on entering. `If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs goes wrong tonight, I shall make sure that you've been praying again me, and I shall work you for it just the same as if I seen you do it.'
The dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head.
`Why, you're at it afore my face!' said Mr. Cruncher, with signs of angry apprehension.
`I am saying nothing.'
`Well, then; don't meditate nothing. You might as well meditate. You may as well go again me one way as another. Drop it altogether.'
`Yes Jerry.'
`Yes, Jerry,' repeated Mr. Cruncher, sitting down to tea. `Ah! It is yes, Jerry. That's about it. You may say yes, Jerry.'
Mr. Cruncher had no particular meaning in these sulky corroborations, but made use of them, as people not unfrequently do, to express general ironical dissatisfaction.
`You and your yes, Jerry,' said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of his bread-and-butter, and seeming to help it down with a large invisible oyster out of his saucer. `Ah! I think so. I believe you.'
`You are going out to-night?' asked his decent wife, when he took another bite.
`Yes, I am.'
`May I go with you, father?' asked his son, briskly.
`No, you mayn't. I'm a going--as your mother knows--a fishing. That's where I'm going to. Going a fishing.'
`Your fishing rod gets rather rusty; don't it, father?'
`Never you mind.'
`Shall you bring any fish home, father?'
`If I don't, you'll have short commons, tomorrow,' returned that gentleman, shaking his head; `that's questions enough for you; I ain't a going out, till you've been long a-bed.'
He devoted himself during the remainder of the evening to keeping a most vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and sullenly holding her in conversation that she might be prevented from meditating any petitions to his disadvantage. With this view, he urged his son to hold her in conversation also, and led the unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling on any causes of complaint lie could bring against her, rather than he would leave her for a moment to her own reflections. The devoutest person could have rendered no greater homage to the efficacy of an honest prayer than he did in this distrust of his Mile. It was as if a professed unbeliever in ghosts should be frightened by a ghost story.
`And mind you!' said Mr. Cruncher. `No games tomorrow! If I, as a honest tradesman, succeed in providing a jinte of meat or two, none of your not touching of it, and sticking to bread. If I, as a honest tradesman, am able to provide a little beer, none of your declaring on water. When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be a ugly customer to you, if you don't. `I'm your Rome, you know.'
Then he began grumbling again:
`With your flying into the face of your own wittles and drink! I don't know how scarce you mayn't make the wittles and drink here, by your flopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. Look at your boy: he is your'n, ain't he? He's as thin as a lath. Do you call yourself a mother, and not know that a mother's first duty is to blow her boy out?'
This touched Young Jerry on a tender place; who adjured his mother to perform her first duty, and, whatever else she did or neglected, above all things to lay especial stress on the discharge of that maternal function so affectingly and delicately indicated by his other parent.
Thus the evening wore away with the Cruncher family, until Young Jerry was ordered to bed, and his mother, laid under similar injunctions, obeyed them. Mr. Cruncher beguiled the earlier watches of the night with solitary pipes, and did not start upon his excursion until nearly one o'clock. Towards that small and ghostly hour, he rose up from his chair, took a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cupboard, and brought forth a sack, a crowbar of convenient size, a rope and chain, and other fishing tackle of that nature. Disposing these articles about him in skilful manner, he bestowed a parting defiance on Mrs. Cruncher, extinguished the light, and went out.
Young Jerry, who had only made a feint of undressing when he went to bed, was not long after his father. Under cover of the darkness he followed out of the room, followed down the stairs, followed down the court, followed out into the streets. He was in no uneasiness concerning his getting into the house again, for it was full of lodgers, and the door stood ajar all night.
Impelled by a laudable ambition to study the art and mystery of his father's honest calling, Young Jerry, keeping as close to house-fronts, walls, and doorways, as his eyes were close to one another, held his honoured parent in view. The honoured parent steering Northward, had not gone far, when he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and the two trudged on together.
Within half an hour from the first starting, they were beyond the winking lamps, and the more than winking watchmen, and were out upon a lonely road. Another fisherman was Picked up here--and that so silently, that if Young Jerry had been superstitious, he might have supposed the second follower of the gentle craft to have, all of a sudden, split himself in two.
The three went on, and Young Jerry went on, until the three stopped under a bank overhanging the road. Upon the top of the bank was a low brick wall, surmounted by an iron railing. In the shadow of bank and wall the three turned out of the road, and up a blind lane, of which the wall--there, risen to some eight or ten feet high--formed one side. Crouching down in a corner, peeping up the lane, the next object that Young Jerry saw, was the form of his honoured parent, pretty well defined against a watery and clouded moon, nimbly scaling an iron gate. He was soon over, and then the second fisherman got over, and then the third. They all dropped softly on the ground within the gate, and lay there a little--listening perhaps. Then, they moved away on their hands and knees.
It was now Young Jerry's turn to approach the gate: which he did, holding his breath. Crouching down again in a corner there, and looking in, he made out the three fishermen creeping through some rank grass, and all the gravestones in the churchyard--it was a large churchyard that they were in looking--on like ghosts in white, while the church tower itself looked on like the ghost of a monstrous giant. They did not creep far, before they stopped and stood upright. And then they began to fish.
They fished with a spade, at first. Presently the honoured parent appeared to be adjusting some instrument like a great corkscrew. Whatever tools they worked with, they worked hard, until the awful striking of the church clock so terrified Young, Jerry, that he made off, with his hair as stiff as his father's.
But, his long-cherished desire to know more about these matters, not only stopped him in his running away, but lured him back again. They were still fishing perseveringly, when he peeped in at the gate for the second time; but, now they seemed to have got a bite. There was a screwing and complaining sound down below, and their bent figures were strained, as if by a weight. By slow degrees the weight broke away the earth upon it, and came to the surface. Young Jerry very well knew what it would be; but, when he saw it, and saw his honoured parent about to wrench it open, he was so frightened, being new to the sight, that he made off again, and never stopped until he had run a mile or more.
He would not have stopped then for anything less necessary than breath, it being a spectral sort of race that he ran, and one highly desirable to get to the end of. He had a strong idea that the coffin he had seen was running after him; and, pictured as hopping on behind him, bolt upright, upon its narrow end, always on the point of overtaking him and hopping on at his side--perhaps taking his arm--it was a pursuer to shun. It was an inconsistent and ubiquitous fiend too, for, while it was making the whole night behind him dreadful, he darted out into the roadway to avoid dark alleys, fearful of its coming hopping out of them like a dropsical boy's Kite without tail and wings. It hid in doorways too, rubbing its horrible shoulders against doors, and drawing them up to its ears, as if it were laughing. It got into shadows on the road, and lay cunningly on its back to trip him up. All this time it was incessantly hopping on behind and gaining on him, so that when the boy got to his own door lie had reason for being half dead. And even then it would not leave him, but followed him upstairs with a bump on every Stair, scrambled into bed with him, and bumped down, dead and heavy, on his breast when he fell asleep.
From his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened after daybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the family room. Something had gone bong with him; at least, so Young Jerry inferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the ears, and knocking the back of her head against the headboard of the bed.
`I told you I would,' said Mr. Cruncher, `and I did.'
`Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!' his wife implored.
`You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,' said Jerry, `and me and my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; why the devil don't you?'
`I try to be a good wife, Jerry,' the poor woman protested, with tears.
`Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband's business? Is it honouring your husband to dishonour his business? Is it obeying your husband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business?'
`You hadn't taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.'
`It's enough for you,' retorted Mr. Cruncher, `to be the wife of a honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations when he took to his trade or when he didn't. A honouring and obeying wife would let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious woman? If you're a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have no more nat'ral sense of duty than the bed of this here Thames river has of a pile, and similarly it must be knocked into you.'
The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and terminated in the honest tradesman's kicking off his clay-soiled boots, and lying down at his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on his back, with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay down too, and fell asleep again.
There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr. Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an iron pot-lid by him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case he should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed and washed at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his ostensible calling.
Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father's side along sunny and crowded Fleet Street, was a very different Young Jerry from him of the previous night, running home through darkness and solitude from his grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day, and his qualms were gone with the night--in which particulars it is not improbable that he had compeers in Fleet Street and the City of London, that fine morning.
`Father,' said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to keep at arm's length and to have the stool well between them: `what's a Resurrection--Man?'
Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before lie answered, `How should I know?'
`I thought you knowed everything, father,' said the artless boy.
`Hem! Well,' returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, and lifting off his hat to give his spikes free play, `he's a tradesman.'
`What`s his goods, father?' asked the brisk Young Jerry.
`His goods,' said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in his mind, is a branch of Scientific goods.'
`Persons' bodies, ain't it, father?' asked the lively boy.
`I believe it is something of that sort,' said Mr. Cruncher.
`Oh, father, I should so like to be a Resurrection--man when I `m quite growed up!'
Mr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head in a dubious and moral way. `It depends upon how you dewelop your talents. Be careful to dewelop your talents, and never to say no more than you can help to nobody, and there's no telling at the present time what you may not come to be fit for.' As Young Jerry, thus encouraged, went on a few yards in advance, to plant the stool in the shadow of the Bar, Mr. Cruncher added to himself: `Jerry, you honest tradesman, there's hopes wot that boy will yet be a blessing to you, and a recompense to you for his mother! 每天，坐在舰队街板凳上，跟他那相貌丑陋的顽童在一起的耶利米亚.克朗彻先生眼前总有大量的五光十色的东西川流不息。有谁能在舰队街热闹繁忙的时刻坐在那儿而不被那两条浩大的人流弄得目眩耳聋呢！一条人流跟着太阳无休止地往西走，一条人流对着太阳无休止地往东走，两条人流都在往日落处红紫两色山峦外的平原走！
克朗彻先生嘴里咬着干草望着两道人流，像是那盯着一条河流看了若干世纪的异教徒乡巴佬——只是他并不在等着河水干涸。何况那是件没有希望的事，因为他有一小部分收入正是来自为胆小的妇女（往往是盛装的中年以上的妇女）导航，从洪流的台尔森一侧驶到对岸去。尽管每一次和客人接触的时间都很短，克朗彻先生却总对那位女士发生兴趣，甚至表示出想有幸为她的健康干杯的强烈愿望。他的经济收入正是从这种普渡众生的行为所得到的谢礼。这我们刚才已经说过了。
过去曾有诗人坐在公共场所的一条板凳上望着行人进行沉思。克朗彻先生也坐在公共场所的一条板凳上，可他不是诗人，因此只是四面张望，尽可能地不去沉思。
他东张西望时正好是行人不多、急着赶路的妇女也少、生意不算兴隆的时候。这却使他心中强烈怀疑克朗彻太太又在肆无忌惮地“下跪”了。这时一支从舰队街向西滚滚而来的不寻常的人流引起了他的注意。克朗彻先生向那边望了望，看出是来了一支丧礼队伍，因为有人阻拦引起了喧哗。
“小杰瑞，”克朗彻先生转身对他的下一代说，“是埋死人呢。”
“呜哇，爸爸！”小杰瑞叫了起来。
这位少爷发出这种兴高采烈的呼喊是带有神秘的意思的。而老爷却很生气，瞅准机会扇了他一个耳光。
“你是什么意思？呜哇个什么？你要对你爹表示个什么意思，小混蛋？你这小子跟你那个‘呜哇’越来越叫我受不了了！”克朗彻先生打量着他说。“别让我再听见你那么乱叫，否则叫你尝尝我的滋味，听见了没有？”
“我又没伤着谁，”小杰瑞一边揉着面颊，一边抗议。
“住嘴，”克朗彻先生说，“我不管你伤没伤着谁。到座位上坐着，看热闹去。”
他的儿子服从了，人群也来到了。他们正对着一辆肮脏的灵车和一辆肮脏的送葬车发出喧闹和嘘声。送葬车上只有一个哭丧的，一身公认为适合于这种庄严场合的肮脏服装。可是他的处境似乎并不叫他高兴。马车周围的人越来越多，他们嘲弄他，对他装鬼脸，还不时地起哄大叫，“呀！密探！啧啧！呀哈！密探！”而且加上太多太犀利的叫人难以复述的恭维话。
丧葬行列在任何时候对克朗彻先生都有惊人的吸引力。凡有丧葬行列经过台尔森，他总要眼耳鼻舌齐动，亢奋起来。因此，惹来了这么一个不寻常的人群的丧葬队伍自然会叫他异常亢奋。他对向他奔来的第一个人问道：
“那是什么，老兄，闹些什么？”
“我不知道，”那人说。“密探！呀哈！啧啧！密探！”
他问另外一个人，“是谁？”
“我不知道，”那人回答，却对着嘴拍着掌，以惊人的热力和最大的干劲大喊大叫，“密探！呀哈！啧啧！啧啧！密——探！”
最后有一个比较明白真相的人撞上了他，他才从那人口里听说，那是一个叫罗杰.克莱的人的丧礼。
“是个密探么？”克朗彻问。
“老贝勒的密探，”他的情报提供人说，“呀哈！啧！呀！老贝勒的密——咦—一
探！”
“啊，没错！”杰瑞回忆起一场他曾效过点力的审判。“我见过他的。死了，是么？”
“死得像羊肉一样，”对方回答，“死得不能再死了。把他们抓出来，喂！密探！把他们拖出来，喂，密探！”
人们正缺少主意，他这个建议倒很可以接受，大家便急忙抓住，大声重复道，“抓出来，拖出来。”人群围了上去，两辆车只好停下了。人群打开车门，那唯一的哭丧人只好扭打着往外挤。他被抓住了一会儿，但他很机灵，很会利用时机，转瞬之间已经沿着一条偏僻街道飞快地跑掉了，丧服、帽子、帽带、白手绢和其它象征眼泪的玩艺儿都扔下了。
人们把他这些东西撕了个粉碎，欢天喜地地到处乱扔。此刻商家急忙关了铺子，因为那时的人群是很可怕的怪物，什么事都干得出来。人群此时已到了准备打开灵车把棺材往外拖的地步。可某个更为聪明的天才却提出了另一个主意：倒不如大家快快活活把那东西送到它的目的地去。这时需要的正是现实的主意，因此，这个意见受到了热烈的欢迎。顷刻之间，马车上已经是里面八个、外面一打地坐满了人。人们又往灵车顶上爬。他们发挥出聪明才智，能呆得住多少就挤上了多少。在这批志愿人员中杰瑞.克朗彻是最早的一个。他挤到了送葬车的角落里，把他那铁蒺藜头客客气气地隐蔽了起来，不让台尔森的人看见。
主持丧礼的殡葬人员对这种改变仪式的行为提出了抗议，但是叫人心惊胆战的大河就在附近，偏又有几个声音叫着要对殡葬人员中的顽固分子采用冷浸疗法，让他们清醒清醒，那抗议便只能短暂而无力了。经过改组的队伍出发了。一个扫烟囱的赶着灵车——由坐在他身边的驭手当顾问，驭手本人又受到严密监视。一个卖馅饼的也在他的内阁首相辅佐之下赶着送葬车。浩浩荡荡的人群走入河滨路不久，一个牵狗熊的也被拉了进来作为点缀——那时街面上这种人很引人注意，也很受人欢迎。而那头长满疥癣的一身黑毛的熊走在队伍里也颇有几分沉重哀悼的神气。
这个乌烟瘴气的行列就像这样行进着，有人喝啤酒，有人抽烟斗，有人哇哇地唱，还有人没完没了地装出椎心泣血的样子。他们一路上招兵买马，所有的商店一见他们赶紧关了门。队伍的目的地是乡下远处的圣潘克拉斯。他们按时到达，坚持要涌进坟场，最后是以他们自己喜欢的形式把死去的罗杰.克莱埋葬掉了，而且感到异常满意。
死人处理完毕，人群又急于另谋消遣。另一个更聪明的天才（也许就是刚才那个）想出了个节目：拿偶然路过的人当作老贝勒的密探进行控拆，向他们报复。二十来个一辈子也没靠近过老贝勒的无辜路人便因要满足这种幻想而遭到了追逐、粗暴的推操和虐待。从这种游戏转化为打碎窗户、枪劫酒店乃是顺理成章的事。最后，几个小时过去，几处凉亭已被推倒，几处围栏也被拆掉甩来武装较为好战的勇士们。这时出现了谣言，说是警卫队要来了。一听这谣言，人群便渐渐散掉。警卫队也许来了，也许根本没有来。总之，暴民活动的全过程就是这样。
克朗彻先生没有参加闭幕式的游戏，却留在了坟场，跟殡仪人员聊天，也表示惋惜。坟场对他产生了一种慰籍镇定的效果。他从附近一个酒店弄来了一个烟斗，抽起烟来，从栅栏望进去看着坟场，慎重地思考着它。
“杰瑞，”克朗彻先生说，按照常规对自己说开了。“这位克莱那天你是见到的，你亲眼见到他还年纪轻轻的，长得也还结实。”
他吸完烟又沉思了一会儿，才转过身来，想赶在下班之前回到他在台尔森的岗位上去。不知道是对道德问题的思维伤了他的肝，还是他的健康一向就有问题，或是他想去对一个杰出的人物表示一点敬意，这都无关宏旨，总之，他在回家的路上去看了看他的健康顾问——一个出色的外科医生。
尽心尽力、饶有兴趣地接替了他爸爸的工作的小杰瑞向他报告说，他离开之后没有任务。银行关了门，衰老的职员们走了出来，门卫照常上了班。克朗彻和他的儿子也回家喝茶去了。
“好，我来告诉你问题在什么地方，”克朗彻先生一进门就对他的老婆说。“如果作为一个诚实的生意人，我今晚的活动出了问题，我准会查出来你又祈祷过要我倒霉的，那我就要像亲眼看见过一样收拾你。”
垂头丧气的克朗彻太太摇摇头。
“可不么，你当着我的面还在祈祷呢！”克朗彻先生说，表现出洞察一切的气愤。
“可我没有说什么。”
“那就好，那就别想。你要想，跪下可以想，不跪下也可以想。你要反对我，用这个办法可以反对，用那个办法也可以反对，可是，我一律不准。”
“是的，杰瑞。”
“是的，杰瑞，”克朗彻先生一边重复她的话，一边坐下来喝茶。“啊！总是‘是的杰瑞’，只有一句话，只会说‘是的杰瑞！”
克朗彻先生这一番懊恼的确证之词，其实并无特别的意思，只不过用它的冷嘲热讽发点牢骚罢了——一般人也并非不常这么做的。
“你跟你那‘是的杰瑞’，”克朗彻先生咬了一口奶油面包，仿佛就着碟子咽下去一个看不见的大牡蛎，“啊，就这祥吧！我相信你。”
“你今儿晚上要出去么？”他那规矩的太太问道。他又咬了一口面包。
“要出去。”
“我也跟你出去好吗，爸爸？”他的儿子赶快问。
“不，你不能去，我是去——你妈妈知道——去钓鱼。是到钓鱼的地方去，去钓鱼。”
“你的鱼竿不是已锈得很厉害了么，爸爸？”
“这你别管。”
“你会带鱼回家么，爸爸？”
“我要是不带回来，你明天就得饿肚子，”那位先生摇摇头回答。“那你可就大成问题了。我要在你睡觉之后很久才出去。”
那天晚上剩下的时间他都十分警惕地监视着克朗彻太太，闷闷不乐地跟她说东道西，不让她进行不利于他的祈祷。为此，他也让他的儿子跟她谈话，找些话头借题发挥埋怨她，不给她丝毫时间思考，让那个不幸的妇女很遭了些罪。就连最信奉上帝的人崇信起虔诚的祈祷的效果来，怕是也比不上他怀疑他老婆的祈祷所能起到的作用。这就像一个自称不相信有鬼的人叫鬼故事吓得心惊胆战一样。
“你得注意！”克朗彻先生说，“明天别玩花头！如果我作为一个诚实的生意人明天能弄到一两条猪腿，你们也不会光吃面包没有肉的。若是我作为一个诚实的生意人能弄到一点啤酒，你们也就不必光喝白水。到什么山上唱什么歌，你要是唱错了调，别人可不买你的帐。我就是你的山，你知道。”
然后他又开始抱怨：
“你这是跟吃的喝的过不去呀！我真不知道你那下跪祈祷的花招和硬心肠的胡闹会让家里缺吃少喝到什么程度。你看看你这儿子吧！他难道不是你亲生的？可他瘦得就像根板条。你还说自己是娘呢，可你难道不懂得当娘的人的头一条责任就是把儿子养得胖胖的么？”
这话可触动了小杰瑞伤心之处。他立即要求他娘执行她的头一条责任。不管她做了多少其它的事，或是没做其它的事，她得特别强调完成爸爸伤心而体贴地指出的当娘的人的本分。
克朗彻家之夜就像这祥消磨过去，直到小杰瑞被命令上了床，他那娘也接到同样的指示，而且遵命执行。克朗彻先生一个人一锅一锅地抽着烟斗，打发着初入夜的几个小时，直到差不多半夜才准备出发。到了凌晨一两点，也就是幽灵出没的时刻，他才在椅子边站了起来，再从口袋里掏出钥匙，打开柜橱，取出一个口袋，一根大小适中的撬棍，一根带链的绳子和这一类的“渔具”。他挺内行地把它们收拾好，向克朗彻太太轻蔑地告了别，灭了灯，走出门去。
小杰瑞在上床时只不过假装脱掉了衣服，不久之后已跟在父亲后面了。他利用黑暗作掩护，跟着他出了屋子，下了楼，进了院子，到了街上。他并不担心回家时进不了大院，因为房客众多，门是通夜半开着的。
他有一个值得称赞的雄心壮志，要探索他父亲那诚实的职业的艺术与神秘。以此为动力，小杰瑞尽可能地贴近房屋门面、墙壁和门洞走（贴近得有如他那两只眼睛），跟随在他那可敬的父亲身后。他那可敬的父亲往北走了不远，便跟另一位艾萨克.华尔顿的门徒会合，一同蹒跚地往前走去。
出发后不到半小时他们已离开了昏沉的灯火和更昏沉的守夜人，走上了一条荒凉的路。在这儿他们又会合了另一个钓鱼人——会合时一点声音也没有。如果小杰瑞信迷信，他简直会以为他是第二个钓鱼人突然一分为二变出来的。
三个人往前走，小杰瑞也往前走。走到一道俯瞰大路的石塄坎之下。石塄坎顶上有一道矮砖墙，上面是一道铁栏杆。三人在石塄坎与砖墙的阴影下脱离正路，穿进一条死胡同，那短墙在此升高了八至十英尺，形成了胡同的一侧墙壁。小杰瑞在一个角落蹲了下来，往胡同里望去。他看到的头一个东西就是他那可敬的父亲的身影，在略带云翳的如水月色衬托之下轮廓分明，正灵巧地往一道铁栅门上爬，很快就翻了过去。第二个钓鱼人也翻了过去，然后是第三个。三个人都轻轻地落在门内的地面上，躺了一会儿——大约是在听听声音，然后便手脚并用地爬走了。
现在轮到小杰瑞靠近大门了：他屏住呼吸走了过去，在一个角落里蹲下，往里一看，隐约看到三个钓鱼人从一些乱草和墓地里的墓碑之间爬了过去——那墓地很大。三人像些穿着白袍的幽灵，而教堂高塔则像个巍巍然的巨人的幽灵。他们没有爬多远便停住步子站了起来。于是开始钓鱼。
起初他们用铁锹钓。紧接着那可敬的父亲似乎在调整一个巨大的拔塞钻一样的东西。不管他们用的是什么工具，总之他们都干得很卖力。直到教堂钟声响起才把小杰瑞吓了一大跳，跑掉了。他的头发竖了起来，像他爸爸那铁蒺藜似的。
但是他那为时已久的探索这秘密的欲望不但让他停住了脚步，而且引诱他又跑了回去。在他第二次从大门朝里望时，那三个人仍然坚持不懈地钓着鱼。不过现在鱼儿好像已经上了钩。下面出现了钻子钻动的声音，他们佝偻着的身子也绷紧了，似乎拽着个什么重东西。那东西逐渐挣脱了压在上面的泥土，露出了地面。小杰瑞原很清楚那会是什么玩艺儿，但是等他见到那东西，又见那可敬的父亲打算把它撬开时，却因为从没见过这样的景象吓得魂不附体，第二次又跑掉了，而且一直跑了一英里或更远才停了下来。
若不是因为非喘气不可，他是绝不敢停步的。他这简直像是在跟幽灵赛跑，非常想摆脱它，他有一个强烈的印象：他看到的那棺材似乎在追他，其形象是小头在下直立着，连蹦带跳，总好像马上就会抓住他似的在他身边蹦跳——也许是想抓住他的胳膊吧！——他非要躲开不可。那玩艺儿还是个缥缈不定、无所不在的幽灵，弄得它背后的整个黑夜都很恐怖。为了回避黑暗的胡同，他窜上了大路，害怕那东西会像得了水肿病的、没有尾巴没有翅膀的风筝似的从胡同里蹦出来。那玩艺儿也躲在门洞里，用它那可怕的双肩在门上擦来擦去，双肩直耸到耳朵，仿佛在笑。那玩艺儿也钻进路上的影子里，狡猾地躺着，想绊他摔筋头，又一直跟在身后，而且越来越逼近了。因此当那孩子跑回自家门口时，简直有理由觉得自己已经死了一半。就连进了屋后那玩艺儿也还没有离开他，仍然跟着他砰砰砰一级一级地跳上了楼，跟着他一起钻进了被窝，他睡着以后还砰砰地跳到他胸口上，死沉死沉的。
黎明以后日出之前睡在小屋里的小杰瑞从那沉重压抑的昏睡之中被他在正屋里的父亲惊醒了。他一定是出了问题，至少小杰瑞那么想，因为他正揪住克朗彻太太的耳朵把她的后脑勺往床板上撞。
“我告诉过你，我会教训你的，”克朗彻先生说，“我也教训过，你。”
‘杰瑞、杰瑞、杰瑞！”他的妻子哀求。
“你跟我的业务收益作对，”杰瑞说，“我和我的伙伴就遭殃。你得尊重我，服从我你他妈的为什么不照办？”
“我是想做个好妻子的，杰瑞，”可怜的女人流着泪抗议。
“跟你丈夫的业务作对就是个好妻子么？害得你丈夫的业务倒霉就是尊重他么？在你丈夫业务的关键问题上不肯听话就是服从他么？”
“可那时你还没有干这桩可怕的买卖，杰瑞。”
“你只需要，”克朗彻反驳道，“做一个诚实的生意人的老婆就够了，至于你丈夫干什么不干什么，你一个妇道人家少去操心。尊重丈夫、服从丈夫的老婆是不会干扰他的业务的。你不是说自己是个很虔诚的女人么？你要是也算得上虔诚的女人，那就我一个不虔诚的给我看看！你心里没有天然的责任感，正如泰晤士河河底长不出钱来一样。应当往你脑袋里敲点责任感进去。”
这番咒骂声音很低，终于以那位诚实的生意人踢掉脚上满是泥土的靴子，然后伸直了身子往床上一倒结束。他的儿子怯生生地偷看了一眼，见他躺在床上，把两只生锈的手放在脑后当作枕头，自己便也躺下去，又睡着了。
早餐并没有鱼，别的东西也不多。克朗彻先生没精打采，一肚子闷气，把一个铁锅盖放在手边作为纠正克朗彻太太的暗器，准备发现她有做祈祷的迹象时使用。他按时洗漱完毕便带着儿子从事名义上的职业去了。
小杰瑞腋下挟个小板凳，跟在爸爸身边沿着阳光普照的拥挤的舰队街走着。他跟昨天晚上逃避那可怖的追逐者在黑暗和孤独中跑回家来时那个杰瑞迥然不同了。他的狡黠已随着白日而更新，他的恐俱已随着黑夜而消逝。就这个特点而言，在那个晴朗的早晨，舰队街和伦敦城跟他情况相同的人也并非没有。
“爸爸，”两人同路走着时小杰瑞说，说时同爸爸保持一臂的距离，当中还夹着一个板凳，“什么叫‘复活贩子’？”
克朗彻先生在街上停了步，回答说，“我怎么会知道。”
“我以为你什么都知道呢，爸爸，”天真的孩子说。
“晤！好了，”克朗彻先生又往前走，同时脱下帽子，充分展示出他的铁蒺藜，“‘复活贩子’是经营一种商品的人。”
“经营什么，爸爸？”敏锐的小杰瑞问。
“他经营的是—一”克朗彻在心里思考了一番，“一种科学研究需要的商品。”
“是人的身体吧，爸爸？”那活泼的孩子问。
“我相信是那一类的东西，”克朗彻先生说。
“我长大以后，啊，爸爸，也很想当个复活贩子呢！”
克朗彻先生虽感到安慰，却以一种恪守道德的含糊态度摇了摇头。“那可得看你怎样发展自己的才能了。小心培养你的才能吧！这种事尽可能别告诉别人。有的工作你未必适宜，现在还说不清。”小杰瑞受到这样的鼓励便往前走了几码，把小板凳放在法学会大楼的阴影里。这时克朗彻先生对自己说道：“杰瑞，你这个诚实的生意人，那孩子还有希望给你带来幸福呢。他倒可以弥补他那娘的不足！” |
