‘I come from the Temple,’ said the man with the bag.
‘From the Temple!’ said Mrs. Tuggs, flinging open the door of the little parlour and disclosing Miss Tuggs in perspective.
‘From the Temple!’ said Miss Tuggs and Mr. Simon Tuggs at the same moment.
‘From the Temple!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, turning as pale as a Dutch cheese.
‘From the Temple,’ repeated the man with the bag; ‘from Mr. Cower’s, the solicitor’s. Mr. Tuggs, I congratulate you, sir. Ladies, I wish you joy of your prosperity! We have been successful.’ And the man with the bag leisurely divested himself of his umbrella and glove, as a preliminary to shaking hands with Mr. Joseph Tuggs.
Now the words ‘we have been successful,’ had no sooner issued from the mouth of the man with the bag, than Mr. Simon Tuggs rose from the tub of weekly Dorset, opened his eyes very wide, gasped for breath, made figures of eight in the air with his pen, and finally fell into the arms of his anxious mother, and fainted away without the slightest ostensible cause or pretence.
‘Water!’ screamed Mrs. Tuggs.
‘Look up, my son,’ exclaimed Mr. Tuggs.
‘Simon! dear Simon!’ shrieked Miss Tuggs.
‘I’m better now,’ said Mr. Simon Tuggs. ‘What! successful!’ And then, as corroborative evidence of his being better, he fainted away again, and was borne into the little parlour by the united efforts of the remainder of the family, and the man with the bag.