Charles Dickens, Bleak House: Ch. 25

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"Who was Nimrod?" Mrs. Snagsby repeatedly inquires of herself.  "Who was that lady—that creature?  And who is that boy?"  Now, Nimrod being as dead as the mighty hunter whose name Mrs. Snagsby has appropriated, and the lady being unproducible, she directs her mental eye, for the present, with redoubled vigilance to the boy.  "And who," quoth Mrs. Snagsby for the thousand and first time, "is that boy?  Who is that—!"  And there Mrs. Snagsby is seized with an inspiration.

He has no respect for Mr. Chadband.  No, to be sure, and he wouldn't have, of course.  Naturally he wouldn't, under those contagious circumstances.  He was invited and appointed by Mr. Chadband—why, Mrs. Snagsby heard it herself with her own ears!—to come back, and be told where he was to go, to be addressed by Mr. Chadband; and he never came!  Why did he never come?  Because he was told not to come.  Who told him not to come?  Who?  Ha, ha!  Mrs. Snagsby sees it all.

But happily (and Mrs. Snagsby tightly shakes her head and tightly smiles) that boy was met by Mr. Chadband yesterday in the streets; and that boy, as affording a subject which Mr. Chadband desires to improve for the spiritual delight of a select congregation, was seized by Mr. Chadband and threatened with being delivered over to the police unless he showed the reverend gentleman where he lived and unless he entered into, and fulfilled, an undertaking to appear in Cook's Court to-morrow night, "to—mor—row—night," Mrs. Snagsby repeats for mere emphasis with another tight smile and another tight shake of her head; and to-morrow night that boy will be here, and to-morrow night Mrs. Snagsby will have her eye upon him and upon some one else; and oh, you may walk a long while in your secret ways (says Mrs. Snagsby with haughtiness and scorn), but you can't blind ME!

Mrs. Snagsby sounds no timbrel in anybody's ears, but holds her purpose quietly, and keeps her counsel.  To-morrow comes, the savoury preparations for the Oil Trade come, the evening comes.  Comes Mr. Snagsby in his black coat; come the Chadbands; come (when the gorging vessel is replete) the 'prentices and Guster, to be edified; comes at last, with his slouching head, and his shuffle backward, and his shuffle forward, and his shuffle to the right, and his shuffle to the left, and his bit of fur cap in his muddy hand, which he picks as if it were some mangy bird he had caught and was plucking before eating raw, Jo, the very, very tough subject Mr. Chadband is to improve.

Mrs. Snagsby screws a watchful glance on Jo as he is brought into the little drawing-room by Guster.  He looks at Mr. Snagsby the moment he comes in.  Aha!  Why does he look at Mr. Snagsby?  Mr. Snagsby looks at him.  Why should he do that, but that Mrs. Snagsby sees it all?  Why else should that look pass between them, why else should Mr. Snagsby be confused and cough a signal cough behind his hand?  It is as clear as crystal that Mr. Snagsby is that boy's father.

"Peace, my friends," says Chadband, rising and wiping the oily exudations from his reverend visage.  "Peace be with us!  My friends, why with us?  Because," with his fat smile, "it cannot be against us, because it must be for us; because it is not hardening, because it is softening; because it does not make war like the hawk, but comes home unto us like the dove.  Therefore, my friends, peace be with us!  My human boy, come forward!"

Stretching forth his flabby paw, Mr. Chadband lays the same on Jo's arm and considers where to station him.  Jo, very doubtful of his reverend friend's intentions and not at all clear but that something practical and painful is going to be done to him, mutters, "You let me alone.  I never said nothink to you.  You let me alone."

"No, my young friend," says Chadband smoothly, "I will not let you alone.  And why?  Because I am a harvest-labourer, because I am a toiler and a moiler, because you are delivered over unto me and are become as a precious instrument in my hands.  My friends, may I so employ this instrument as to use it to your advantage, to your profit, to your gain, to your welfare, to your enrichment!  My young friend, sit upon this stool."

Jo, apparently possessed by an impression that the reverend gentleman wants to cut his hair, shields his head with both arms and is got into the required position with great difficulty and every possible manifestation of reluctance.