The Warden Anthony Trollope (top 100 novels txt) đ
- Author: Anthony Trollope
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Old Billy Gazy was not alive to much enthusiasm. Even these golden prospects did not arouse him to do more than rub his poor old bleared eyes with the cuff of his bedesmanâs gown, and gently mutter: âhe didnât know, not he; he didnât know.â
âBut youâd know, Jonathan,â continued Spriggs, turning to the other friend of Skulpitâs, who was sitting on a stool by the table, gazing vacantly at the petition. Jonathan Crumple was a meek, mild man, who had known better days; his means had been wasted by bad children, who had made his life wretched till he had been received into the hospital, of which he had not long been a member. Since that day he had known neither sorrow nor trouble, and this attempt to fill him with new hopes was, indeed, a cruelty.
âA hundred a yearâs a nice thing, for sartain, neighbour Spriggs,â said he. âI once had nigh to that myself, but it didnât do me no good.â And he gave a low sigh, as he thought of the children of his own loins who had robbed him.
âAnd shall have again, Joe,â said Handy; âand will have someone to keep it right and tight for you this time.â
Crumple sighed again;â âhe had learned the impotency of worldly wealth, and would have been satisfied, if left untempted, to have remained happy with one and sixpence a day.
âCome, Skulpit,â repeated Handy, getting impatient, âyouâre not going to go along with old Bunce in helping that parson to rob us all. Take the pen, man, and right yourself. Well,â he added, seeing that Skulpit still doubted, âto see a man as is afraid to stand by hisself is, to my thinking, the meanest thing as is.â
âSink them all for parsons, says I,â growled Moody; âhungry beggars, as never thinks their bellies full till they have robbed all and everything!â
âWhoâs to harm you, man?â argued Spriggs. âLet them look never so black at you, they canât get you put out when youâre once in;â âno, not old Catgut, with Calves to help him!â I am sorry to say the archdeacon himself was designated by this scurrilous allusion to his nether person.
âA hundred a year to win, and nothing to lose,â continued Handy. âMy eyes! Well, how a manâs to doubt about sich a bit of cheese as that passes me;â âbut some men is timorous;â âsome men is born with no pluck in them;â âsome men is cowed at the very first sight of a gentlemanâs coat and waistcoat.â
Oh, Mr. Harding, if you had but taken the archdeaconâs advice in that disputed case, when Joe Mutters was this ungrateful demagogueâs rival candidate!
âAfraid of a parson,â growled Moody, with a look of ineffable scorn. âI tell ye what Iâd be afraid ofâ âIâd be afraid of not getting nothing from âem but just what I could take by might and right;â âthatâs the most Iâd be afraid on of any parson of âem all.â
âBut,â said Skulpit, apologetically, âMr. Hardingâs not so bad;â âhe did give us twopence a day, didnât he now?â
âTwopence a day!â exclaimed Spriggs with scorn, opening awfully the red cavern of his lost eye.
âTwopence a day!â muttered Moody with a curse; âsink his twopence!â
âTwopence a day!â exclaimed Handy; âand Iâm to go, hat in hand, and thank a chap for twopence a day, when he owes me a hundred pounds a year; no, thank ye; that may do for you, but it wonât for me. Come, I say, Skulpit, are you a going to put your mark to this here paper, or are you not?â
Skulpit looked round in wretched indecision to his two friends. âWhat dâye think, Bill Gazy?â said he.
But Bill Gazy couldnât think. He made a noise like the bleating of an old sheep, which was intended to express the agony of his doubt, and again muttered that âhe didnât know.â
âTake hold, you old cripple,â said Handy, thrusting the pen into poor Billyâs hand: âthere, soâ âugh! you old fool, youâve been and smeared it allâ âthereâ âthatâll do for you;â âthatâs as good as the best name as ever was writtenâ: and a big blotch of ink was presumed to represent Billy Gazyâs acquiescence.
âNow, Jonathan,â said Handy, turning to Crumple.
âA hundred a yearâs a nice thing, for sartain,â again argued Crumple. âWell, neighbour Skulpit, howâs it to be?â
âOh, please yourself,â said Skulpit: âplease yourself, and youâll please me.â
The pen was thrust into Crumpleâs hand, and a faint, wandering, meaningless sign was made, betokening such sanction and authority as Jonathan Crumple was able to convey.
âCome, Job,â said Handy, softened by success, âdonât let âem have to say that old Bunce has a man like you under his thumbâ âa man that always holds his head in the hospital as high as Bunce himself, though youâre never axed to drink wine, and sneak, and tell lies about your betters as he does.â
Skulpit held the pen, and made little flourishes with it in the air, but still hesitated.
âAnd if youâll be said by me,â continued Handy, âyouâll not write your name to it at all, but just put your mark like the others;ââ âthe cloud began to clear from Skulpitâs brow;â ââwe all know you can do it if you like, but maybe you wouldnât like to seem uppish, you know.â
âWell, the mark would be best,â said Skulpit. âOne name and the rest marks wouldnât look well, would it?â
âThe worst in the world,â said Handy; âthereâ âthereâ: and stooping over the petition, the learned clerk made a huge cross on the place left for his signature.
âThatâs the game,â said Handy, triumphantly pocketing the petition; âweâre all in a boat now, that is, the nine of us; and as for old Bunce, and his cronies, they mayâ ââ But as he was hobbling off to the door, with a crutch on one side and a stick on the other, he was met by Bunce himself.
âWell Handy, and what may old Bunce do?â said the gray-haired, upright senior.
Handy muttered something, and was departing; but he was stopped in the doorway by the huge frame of the newcomer.
âYouâve
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