from this person he learned that the funeral was
the funeral of one Roger Cly.

"Was He a spy?" asked Mr. Cruncher.

"Old Bailey spy," returned his informant.
"Yaha! Tst! Yah! Old Bailey Spi-i-ies!"

"Why, to be sure!" exclaimed Jerry, recalling
the Trial at which he had assisted. "I've seen
him. Dead, is he?"

"Dead as mutton," returned the other, "and
can't be too dead. Have 'em out, there! Spies!
Pull 'em out, there! Spies!"

The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent
absence of any idea, that the crowd caught it
up with eagerness, and loudly repeating the
suggestion to have 'em out, and to pull 'em out,
mobbed the two vehicles so closely that they
came to a stop. On the crowd's opening the coach
doors, the one mourner scuffled out of himself
and was in their hands for a moment; but he
was so alert, and made such good use of his
time, that in another moment he was scouring
away up a by-street, after shedding his cloak,
hat, long hatband, white pocket-handkerchief,
and other symbolical tears.

These, the people tore to pieces and scattered
far and wide with great enjoyment, while the
tradesmen hurriedly shut up their shops; for
a crowd in those times stopped at nothing, and
was a monster much dreaded. They had already
got the length of opening the hearse to take the
coffin out, when some brighter genius proposed
instead, its being escorted to its destination
amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions
being much needed, this suggestion, too, was
received with acclamation, and the coach was
immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen
out, while as many people got on the roof of the
hearse as could by any exercise of ingenuity stick
upon it. Among the first of these volunteers was
Jerry Cruncher himself, who modestly
concealed his spiky head from the observation of
Tellson's, in the further corner of the mourning
coach.

The officiating undertakers made some protest
against these changes in the ceremonies; but,
the river being alarmingly near, and several
voices remarking on the efficacy of cold immersion
in bringing refractory members of the
profession to reason, the protest was faint and brief.
The remodelled procession started, with a
chimney-sweep driving the hearse—advised by
the regular driver, who was perched beside him,
under close inspection, for the purpose—and
with a pieman, also attended by his cabinet
minister, driving the mourning coach. A bear-
leader, a popular street character of the time,
was impressed as an additional ornament, before
the cavalcade had gone far down the Strand;
and his bear, who was black and very mangy,
gave quite an Undertaking air to that part of
the procession in which he walked.

Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-
roaring, and infinite caricaturing of woe, the
disorderly procession went its way, recruiting at
every step, and all the shops shutting up before
it. Its destination was the old church of Saint
Pancras, far off in the fields. It got there in
course of time; insisted on pouring into the
burial-ground; finally, accomplished the interment
of the deceased Roger Cly in its own way,
and highly to its own satisfaction.

The dead man disposed of, and the crowd being
under the necessity of providing some other
entertainment for itself, another brighter genius (or
perhaps the same) conceived the humour of
impeaching casual passers-by, as Old Bailey
spies, and wreaking vengeance on them. Chase
was given to some scores of inoffensive persons
who had never been near the Old Bailey in their
lives, in the realisation of this fancy, and they
were roughly hustled and maltreated. The
transition to the sport of window-breaking, and
thence to the plundering of public-houses, was
easy and natural. At last, after several hours,
when sundry summer-houses had been pulled
down, and some area railings had been torn up,
to arm the more belligerent spirits, a rumour got
about that the Guards were coming. Before
this rumour, the crowd gradually melted away,
and perhaps the Guards came, and perhaps they
never came, and this was the usual progress of a
mob.

Mr. Cruncher did not assist at the closing
sports, but had remained behind in the churchyard,
to confer and condole with the
undertakers. The place had a soothing influence on
him. He procured a pipe from a neighbouring
public-house, and smoked it, looking in at the
railings and maturely considering the spot.

"Jerry," said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising
himself in his usual way, "you see that there
Cly that day, and you see with your own eyes
that he was a young 'un and a straight made 'un."

Having smoked his pipe out, and ruminated a
little longer, he turned himself about, that he
might appear, before the hour of closing, on his
station at Tellson's. Whether his meditations on
mortality had touched his liver, or whether his
general health had been previously at all amiss,
or whether he desired to show a little attention
to an eminent man, is not so much to the
purpose, as that he made a short call upon his
medical adviser—a distinguished surgeon—on
his way back.

Young Jerry relieved his father with dutiful
interest, and reported No job in his absence.
The bank closed, the ancient clerks came out,
the usual watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher and
his son went home to tea.

"Now, I tell you where it is!" said Mr.
Cruncher to his wife, on entering. "If, as a
honest tradesman, my wenturs goes wrong
tonight, I shall make sure that you've been praying
again me, and I shall work you for it just
the same as if I seen you do it."

The dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head.

"Why, you're at it afore my face!" said Mr.
Cruncher, with signs of angry apprehension.

"I am saying nothing."

"Well then; don't meditate nothing. You
might as well flop as meditate. You may as well
go again me one way as another. Drop it
altogether."

"Yes, Jerry."