washerwoman, has no money at all, but is,
thanks to My Uncle, a capitalist while she
possesses a flat-iron. Biddle, the boot-closer,
has been rather idle during the early part of
the week, and is proportionately pressed for
time at the end of it. He works as hard as
he can all Saturday, yet he has finished his
job only in time to be too late to take it
home; for at nine his employer's premises
are closed. Money he must have; so he
takes some of the boots to My Uncle; and,
on Monday, redeems them with the money he
has been paid for the rest of them. The
operation by which money is raised upon the
coat, the fender, the flat-iron, or the new
boots, is usually described as " pawnbroking;"
and My Uncle is (not to mince the matter)
called a Pawnbroker.

My Uncle's office—or we can afford to say,
shop, for My Uncle has not the least desire to
sink it—in a poor neighbourhood, is a remarkable
scene. It is particularly so, on a Saturday
night. The reader who should trudge with
me, following the Eastern index of the church
weathercocks, to My Uncle's in the region of
the Commercial Road, on a Saturday night,
would find another sort of interest going on
there, besides the interest My Uncle is
empowered by law to take. He (for the reader
is of an arbitrary gender, according to the
cases wisely cited in the old school grammar,
where it instanced, " as we say of the sun, he
is setting; or of a ship, she sails well ")—he
would find My Uncle's full of company. He
would find the little private boxes in the
shop, with bolts inside the doors—supposed
to be designed for bashful clients, coyly
emulous of solitude—crowded with
miscellaneous customers; the public portion of the
shop no less so. He would find three-fourths
of these attendants on My Uncle to be nieces
—women—prolific in children, to judge from
the babies present, and from other powerful
symptoms. Enquiring of My Uncle of what
class these mostly were, he would be answered,
"Wives of labourers in the Docks." Hereupon
his thoughts would probably go wandering
down long ranges of warehouses, and wharves,
and cellarage, working at windlasses and cranes,
at logs of wood, at bales, at sacks, at casks, at
rum and sugar, until brought back to My
Uncle's by a Plump! close to him as he stood
behind the counter, and the tumbling out of
the wall of half-a-dozen bundles. Then,
remembering that popular figure of speech, The
Spout, he would enquire of My Uncle whether
those bundles had been up the Spout, and
were now coming down? To which My
Uncle, with a forbearing smile, as one who
could not expect him to be otherwise than
innocent of the proprieties of the trade, would
mildly make reply, " It is called the Spout,
but we call it the Well."

Then, his eye would follow the bundles from
the Spout to the counter, admiring to see how
they were whisked away, and tossed intuitively,
label upwards, by brisk jugglers of shopmen.
" Now then, Flathers! "  " Here! " " How
many, Mrs. Flathers? " " Six." " Only three
down yet." (Those three would be laid aside,
and Mrs. Flathers would resign herself to more
waiting.) " Bailey, how many? " " One."
A rapid pen-and-ink sum would be worked by
the shopman on the back of the ticket.
"Eighteen-pence halfpenny," Bailey would
know it well beforehand—would have the
exact amount ready—would depart with a
bald infant son in arms (one red sock missing),
and make room for Dennet.

Dennet, slatternly and aged seventeen,
would produce a gown. The shopman, opening
it with sleight of hand, would know it at a
glance. "A shilling." "Eighteen-pence." "Can't
be." " Say one and three." " Impossible."
Gown slapped, thrown up, tossed over—
wrapped and pinned as tight as a ship's block!
Ticket and duplicate made out, sixpence and
halfpence jerked from the till like water. All
right! " Now Mrs. Jolly, what are you waiting
for? " " My husband's rule. I think it's
behind you, Charles. Do give it me, that's a
good soul, and let me go, for I've got marketing
to do, and supper besides! "—" This it ? "—
"That's it, Charles! " Another rapid
calculation. "Eighteen-pence three farthings."
Change for a shilling at a blow. Mrs. Jolly
gone, and somebody come into the genteeler
portion of the shop, supposed to be set aside
for purchasers of articles exposed for sale.—
"About that table-cloth this morning." " Oh!"

Then, My Uncle in person would present
himself, and confront a middle-aged matron of
respectable appearance, accompanied by a poor-
looking girl, half servant-girl, and half
companion. " This," My Uncle would say, pointing
to the latter and addressing the former,
"is the young woman who offered a very long
table-cloth in pledge this morning,"—which
My Uncle would produce whilst speaking.
"Yes Sir," the respectable-looking woman
would reply. " This is the young person. And
it is my property."—" She said," My Uncle
would quietly proceed, " that it was her sister's
property, and that her sister sent her."—" Yes
Sir, it is quite correct, she did."—" Well ! but
you know," My Uncle would retort, glancing
confidentially at the two, "you are not her
sister? " " No Sir, I am not; I confess I
am not. But a person don't wish to mention
the exact truth when reduced to these
necessities, and such was the instructions that I giv'
her. I am aware that it is not, strictly speaking,
right fur to pervert the truth, and I am
sorry for it now, since it has caused me a deal
of trouble, and forced me to come a good
distance."—" I am sorry too, both to have stopped
the table-cloth, and to have put you to any
inconvenience," My Uncle would return, " but
we are obliged to be cautious. Her account
was not satisfactory, though not so
unsatisfactory as to justify me in detaining her—and
it's such a very long table-cloth! It might
be a ship's table-cloth, for instance, not honestly
come by, especially as the marking in the