“Well you see, Mr Ruggles,” said Purkis, after another tenchy gasp.
“Now, Joseph, don’t,” cried Mrs Purkis.
“Hold your tongue, woman,” cried Mr Purkis, majestically—the beadle asserting itself over the husband.
“Don’t stop him; pray don’t stop him, Mrs Purkis, ma’am,” cried Tim. “What, does it mean? Mrs Pellet began to tell me, when Mr Pellet stopped her; and now Mr Purkis begins to tell me, and you stop him.”
Mrs Purkis shook her head fiercely, so that something, probably curl papers—for she was strong in crackers—rattled.
“Please tell me,” implored Tim. “It’s about that robbery at the church; and Mrs Pellet says that you, sir, saw Mrs Ruggles at the boxes, and then Mr Pellet wouldn’t let her say another word.”
“And so I did see her,” gasped Mr Purkis, rattling his halfpence as he spoke; “kiss the book and take my Bible oath I did—”
“Now, Joseph—now, Joseph,” cried Mrs Purkis, interrupting him; “don’t say another word, or you’ll never forgive yourself.”
“Hold your tongue, woman!” cried Mr Purkis again, more importantly, but without looking down at her, or taking his hands from where he had deeply thrust them—into his pockets.
“Don’t speak to me in that rough way before people, Joseph!” cried Mrs Purkis, indignantly, and she gave the arm to which she clung a sharp shake.