Холодный дом

Mr. Bucket

           AtlastthereisalairfoundoutwhereToughy,ortheToughSubject,layshimdownatnight;anditisthoughtthattheToughSubjectmaybeJo.ComparisonofnotesbetweenMr.Snagsbyandtheproprietressofthehouseadrunkenfacetiedupinablackbundle,andflaringoutofaheapofragsonthefloorofadog-hutchwhichisherprivateapartmentleadstotheestablishmentofthisconclusion.Toughyhasgonetothedoctor’stogetabottleofstuffforasickwomanbutwillbehereanon."Andwhohavewegothereto-night?"saysMr.Bucket,openinganotherdoorandglaringinwithhisbull’s-eye."Twodrunkenmen,eh?Andtwowomen?Themenaresoundenough,"turningbackeachsleeper’sarmfromhisfacetolookathim."Aretheseyourgoodmen,mydears?""Yes,sir,"returnsoneofthewomen."Theyareourhusbands.""Brickmakers,eh?""Yes,sir.""Whatareyoudoinghere?Youdon’tbelongtoLondon.""No,sir.WebelongtoHertfordshire.""WhereaboutsinHertfordshire?""SaintAlbans.""Comeuponthetramp?""Wewalkedupyesterday.There’snoworkdownwithusatpresent,butwehavedonenogoodbycominghere,andshalldonone,Iexpect.""That’snotthewaytodomuchgood,"saysMr.Bucket,turninghisheadinthedirectionoftheunconsciousfiguresontheground."Itan’tindeed,"repliesthewomanwithasigh."Jennyandmeknowsitfullwell."Theroom,thoughtwoorthreefeethigherthanthedoor,issolowthattheheadofthetallestofthevisitorswouldtouchtheblackenedceilingifhestoodupright.

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