Chapter Seventeen.
Samuel Shuckleford finds himself busy.
“Jemima, my dear,” said Mrs Shuckleford one day, as the little family in Number 4, Dull Street, sat round their evening meal, “I don’t like the looks of Mrs Cruden. It’s my opinion she don’t get enough to eat.”
“Really, ma, how you talk!” replied the daughter. “The butcher’s boy left there this very afternoon. I saw him.”
“I’m afraid, my dear, he didn’t leave anything more filling than a bill. In fact, I ’eard myself that the butcher told Mrs Marks he thought Number 6 ’ad gone far enough for ’im.”
“Oh, ma! you don’t mean to say they’re in debt?” said Jemima, who, by the way, had been somewhat more pensive and addicted to sitting by herself since Reginald had gone north.
“Well, if it was only the butcher I heard it from I wouldn’t take much account of it, but Parker the baker ’as ’is doubts of them; so I ’eard the Grinsons’ maid tell Ford when I was in ’is shop this very day. And I’m sure you’ve only to look at ’Orace’s coat and ’at to see they must be in debt: the poor boy looks a reg’lar scarecrow. It all comes, my dear, of Reginald’s going off and leaving them. Oh, ’ow I pity them that ’as a wild son.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, ma,” said Miss Jemima, firing up. “He’s no more wild than Sam here.”