Mr. Smallweed glanced with a troubled eye at us and grudgingly nodded assent.
“And coming to look at that paper at your full leisure and convenience—all in good time, for you’re not curious to read it, and why should you be?—what do you find it to be but a will, you see. That’s the drollery of it,” said Mr. Bucket with the same lively air of recalling a joke for the enjoyment of Mr. Smallweed, who still had the same crest-fallen appearance of not enjoying it at all; “what do you find it to be but a will?”
“I don’t know that it’s good as a will or as anything else,” snarled Mr. Smallweed.
Mr. Bucket eyed the old man for a moment—he had slipped and shrunk down in his chair into a mere bundle—as if he were much disposed to pounce upon him; nevertheless, he continued to bend over him with the same agreeable air, keeping the corner of one of his eyes upon us.
“Notwithstanding which,” said Mr. Bucket, “you get a little doubtful and uncomfortable in your mind about it, having a very tender mind of your own.”
“Eh? What do you say I have got of my own?” asked Mr. Smallweed with his hand to his ear.
“A very tender mind.”
“Ho! Well, go on,” said Mr. Smallweed.
“And as you’ve heard a good deal mentioned regarding a celebrated Chancery will case of the same name, and as you know what a card Krook was for buying all manner of old pieces of furniter, and books, and papers, and what not, and never liking to part with ’em, and always a-going to teach himself to read, you begin to think—and you never was more correct in your born days—‘Ecod, if I don’t look about me, I may get into trouble regarding this will.’”
“Now, mind how you put it, Bucket,” cried the old man anxiously with his hand at his ear. “Speak up; none of your brimstone tricks. Pick me up; I want to hear better. Oh, Lord, I am shaken to bits!”