“The fool himself—and lives there now,” said Uriah, disdainfully.
“Ask—Heep—if he ever kept a pocket-book in that house,” said Mr. Micawber; “will you?”
I saw Uriah’s lank hand stop, involuntarily, in the scraping of his chin.
“Or ask him,” said Mr. Micawber, “if he ever burnt one there. If he says yes, and asks you where the ashes are, refer him to Wilkins Micawber, and he will hear of something not at all to his advantage!”
The triumphant flourish with which Mr. Micawber delivered himself of these words, had a powerful effect in alarming the mother; who cried out, in much agitation:
“Ury, Ury! Be umble, and make terms, my dear!”
“Mother!” he retorted, “will you keep quiet? You’re in a fright, and don’t know what you say or mean. Umble!” he repeated, looking at me, with a snarl; “I’ve umbled some of ’em for a pretty long time back, umble as I was!”
Mr. Micawber, genteelly adjusting his chin in his cravat, presently proceeded with his composition.
“‘Second. Heep has, on several occasions, to the best of my knowledge, information, and belief’”—
“But that won’t do,” muttered Uriah, relieved. “Mother, you keep quiet.”