“Not a bit, sir: and then, sir, where natur’ leaves us, we can always lay hold upon art. Flesh”—said Breeks, waving his arm—“flesh may fall away, but paddin’s contin’ally with us.”
“Just so! and therefore, Breeks, you may give a little puff—just the smallest roundness”—
“I know, sir; just an ounce or two more flesh in the waistcoast. It shall be done, sir. I wish you a humble good morning, sir,” and Breeks bowed in excess of homage.
“Breeks,”—a thought had come upon Jericho,—“Breeks, are you married?” Breeks stared: for how many times, years gone by, had Mrs. Breeks herself opened the door to Mr. Jericho!
Breeks delicately resented this forgetfulness of the man of money. With a low bow, the tailor replied—“I am not yet a widower, Mr. Jericho.”
“Ha! To be sure. Humph”—mused Jericho—“then it’s out of the question; otherwise, Breeks, I might have served you.”
“Mrs. Breeks, Mr. Jericho,”—replied the tailor,—“is too dootiful a wife to stand in the light of her husband. Whatever it is, may I be so bold as to say, mention it?”
“Not now—no matter—another time. Go,” said Jericho; and the tailor, with an awe of the sudden dignity of money—an awe he would not confess to—shrank from the dressing-room.
“Here’s a change! After all, there’s no such paddin’ for human natur’ as Bank-notes!” Now this is what Breeks declared to himself outside the door; and again and again repeated as he stept onward from Jericho’s house. Indeed, so intent was he upon the felicitous thought that—with a strange self-delusion—he avowed to his wife, delighted by her husband’s wit and courage, that he flung the words—hard and hot like a thunderbolt—“in Jericho’s face.” And the elevated tailor almost thought as much. Nevertheless, for Jericho’s face, truth meekly supplies Jericho’s knocker.
The waistcoat that six weeks ago had wrapt Jericho, lay on the ground. How wide and large it looked! An expanded cere-cloth of perished flesh! How much of him—of him, Jericho—was once in that waistcoat that was now—where? It could not be possible that the bank in his bosom was supplied at the cost of his fleshly substance? He was not paying himself away transmuted into paper? Pooh! Nonsense! He never felt better; never felt so hard and firm. Nevertheless, he looked upon the waistcoat as upon an opened book, written with mortal meanings. And then again he felt assured his fleshly store did not supply his money, and then—he determined to measure his waist, and in exactest balance—unknown to all men—to weigh himself every morning. The first part of the discipline he would immediately commence. Whereupon, with a silken lace he encompassed his chest, snipping close where both ends joined. Scarcely had he finished the operation, when light, yet peremptory fingers, tapped at the door. “May I come in, love?” It was the voice of Mrs. Jericho.