“Gently, my dear, gently,” said Jared; for Mrs Pellet was growing rather warm, and—as is peculiar to the female sex—loud; but Jared’s words acted like oil, and his wife’s feathers grew smooth directly.
Some time had elapsed since Tim Ruggles had made his appearance in Duplex Street, for the trousers trade had been brisk, and he had been busy enough at home, while messages from the foreman of the shop for which he worked were constantly being borne to Carnaby Street to know “whether Ruggles meant to wear out that last pair of trousers as well as make them;” or, “if he did not mean to make those last two pair, to send them back and let somebody else.” “When, you know,” said Tim, “at my place it was all board; I had my breakfast on the board, my dinner on the board, my tea on the board, my supper on the board, and for two or three nights the only sleep I had was an hour or two when I lay down on the board; and once I dreamed that I was a sewing-machine, and that Mrs Ruggles was turning my handle, when she was only shaking my arm because it was morning, and time for me to be up and at work again.”
There was peace in the domestic grove at Duplex Street; the little ones were all in bed; Patty was thinking of Janet and her goldfish, and sometimes of Harry Clayton, as she sewed on buttons and strings where small garments needed them; and Mrs Jared was industriously embroidering a workhouse-window pattern upon one of a basketful of stockings, some of which strongly resembled the Irishman’s knife, for it was a difficult matter to make out any portion of the original hose, so covered were they with Mrs Jared’s darnings.
Jared himself was busy with his glue-pot, the constant companion of his leisure evenings. That glue-pot was to Jared Pellet what a pocket-knife is to some people, and a ball of string to others—it was a perfect treasure, and with it he performed feats strongly allied to those of Robin, Houdin, or Wiljalba Frikell, without taking into consideration the money it earned him. Boots and shoes were renovated to a wonderful extent; wall-paper torn down by tiny mischievous fingers was replaced; broken chairs had their limbs set; in fact, Jared looked upon glue as a panacea, even going so far as to pop scraps in his mouth, though it cannot be avowed that he swallowed them, and it may only have been for the purpose of cleaning his fingers. And yet, it was a nasty little pot, being of a vicious character, and given to boiling over and covering Mrs Jared’s hobs and polished black bars with a nasty sticky slime that would not come off; while, when she remonstrated with Jared, being naturally proud of her black-leading, he quietly told her that it was of the nature of glue to stick, and that the little pot ought to have been watched. Just as if it was of any use to watch the treacherous little object; for one moment it would be calm, and the next in a state of violent eruption, hissing, bubbling, and sending forth noxious jets of steam to an extent which made it unapproachable.
Tim Ruggles sat very silent after Mrs Jared had spoken, for he entertained a most profound respect for her expressions of opinion; and the upshot of that conversation was, that, in spite of his wife’s opposition, he took little Pine to a doctor—a hint, however, which he dropped at home relative to the possibility of a cessation of certain payments, in the event of what he called “anything happening,” somewhat softened Mrs Ruggles’ opposition. The next time, too, after that conversation that Tim went to Bedford Row to draw the bi-monthly payment, he ventured to suggest that a little medical advice was necessary for the child, when the gentleman who took his receipt said, “Oh!” in a quiet manner, as much as to say, “I quite agree with you; and you think so, do you?”
“Her cough tears her poor little chest terrible, sir,” said Tim, respectfully.
“Indeed!” said the legal gentleman, who was very pale, smooth, and cool.
“Her sleep’s broken a good deal, too, sir,” said Tim, warming to his task.
“Ah!” said the legal gentleman, with a quiet, well-bred smile, which no amount of torturing would have turned into a laugh.
“It wherrits me to hear her, sir—awful,” said Tim; “and I think if them as belongs to her knowed, they’d—”