“Yes, my dear,” stammered the father.
“Then,” said the person of the house, terrifying him by a grand muster of her spirits and forces before recurring to the emphatic word, “What do you mean by it?”
“Circumstances over which had no control,” was the miserable creature’s plea in extenuation.
“I’ll circumstance you and control you too,” retorted the person of the house, speaking with vehement sharpness, “if you talk in that way. I’ll give you in charge to the police, and have you fined five shillings when you can’t pay, and then I won’t pay the money for you, and you’ll be transported for life. How should you like to be transported for life?”
“Shouldn’t like it. Poor shattered invalid. Trouble nobody long,” cried the wretched figure.
“Come, come!” said the person of the house, tapping the table near her in a business-like manner, and shaking her head and her chin; “you know what you’ve got to do. Put down your money this instant.”
The obedient figure began to rummage in its pockets.
“Spent a fortune out of your wages, I’ll be bound!” said the person of the house. “Put it here! All you’ve got left! Every farthing!”
Such a business as he made of collecting it from his dogs’-eared pockets; of expecting it in this pocket, and not finding it; of not expecting it in that pocket, and passing it over; of finding no pocket where that other pocket ought to be!
“Is this all?” demanded the person of the house, when a confused heap of pence and shillings lay on the table.
“Got no more,” was the rueful answer, with an accordant shake of the head.
“Let me make sure. You know what you’ve got to do. Turn all your pockets inside out, and leave ’em so!” cried the person of the house.
He obeyed. And if anything could have made him look more abject or more dismally ridiculous than before, it would have been his so displaying himself.
“Here’s but seven and eightpence halfpenny!” exclaimed Miss Wren, after reducing the heap to order. “Oh, you prodigal old son! Now you shall be starved.”
“No, don’t starve me,” he urged, whimpering.
“If you were treated as you ought to be,” said Miss Wren, “you’d be fed upon the skewers of cats’ meat; — only the skewers, after the cats had had the meat. As it is, go to bed.”
When he stumbled out of the corner to comply, he again put out both his hands, and pleaded: “Circumstances over which no control—”
“Get along with you to bed!” cried Miss Wren, snapping him up. “Don’t speak to me. I’m not going to forgive you. Go to bed this moment!”
Seeing another emphatic “What” upon its way, he evaded it by complying, and was heard to shuffle heavily up stairs, and shut his door, and throw himself on his bed. Within a little while afterwards, Lizzie came down.
“Shall we have our supper, Jenny dear?”