Chapter XLVII. Jo's Will

by Charles Dickens

　　As Allan Woodcourt and Jo proceed along the streets where the highchurch spires and the distances are so near and clear in themorning light that the city itself seems renewed by rest, Allanrevolves in his mind how and where he shall bestow his companion."It surely is a strange fact," he considers, "that in the heart ofa civilized world this creature in human form should be moredifficult to dispose of than an unowned dog." But it is none theless a fact because of its strangeness, and the difficulty remains.At first he looks behind him often to assure himself that Jo isstill really following. But look where he will, he still beholdshim close to the opposite houses, making his way with his wary handfrom brick to brick and from door to door, and often, as he creepsalong, glancing over at him watchfully. Soon satisfied that thelast thing in his thoughts is to give him the slip, Allan goes on,considering with a less divided attention what he shall do.A breakfast-stall at a street-corner suggests the first thing to bedone. He stops there, looks round, and beckons Jo. Jo crosses andcomes halting and shuffling up, slowly scooping the knuckles of hisright hand round and round in the hollowed palm of his left,kneading dirt with a natural pestle and mortar. What is a daintyrepast to Jo is then set before him, and he begins to gulp thecoffee and to gnaw the bread and butter, looking anxiously abouthim in all directions as he eats and drinks, like a scared animal.But he is so sick and miserable that even hunger has abandoned him."I thought I was amost a-starvin, sir," says Jo, soon putting downhis food, "but I don't know nothink--not even that. I don't carefor eating wittles nor yet for drinking on 'em." And Jo standsshivering and looking at the breakfast wonderingly.Allan Woodcourt lays his hand upon his pulse and on his chest."Draw breath, Jo!" "It draws," says Jo, "as heavy as a cart." Hemight add, "And rattles like it," but he only mutters, "I'm a-moving on, sir."Allan looks about for an apothecary's shop. There is none at hand,but a tavern does as well or better. He obtains a little measureof wine and gives the lad a portion of it very carefully. Hebegins to revive almost as soon as it passes his lips. "We mayrepeat that dose, Jo," observes Allan after watching him with hisattentive face. "So! Now we will take five minutes' rest, andthen go on again."Leaving the boy sitting on the bench of the breakfast-stall, withhis back against an iron railing, Allan Woodcourt paces up and downin the early sunshine, casting an occasional look towards himwithout appearing to watch him. It requires no discernment toperceive that he is warmed and refreshed. If a face so shaded canbrighten, his face brightens somewhat; and by little and little heeats the slice of bread he had so hopelessly laid down. Observantof these signs of improvement, Allan engages him in conversationand elicits to his no small wonder the adventure of the lady in theveil, with all its consequences. Jo slowly munches as he slowlytells it. When he has finished his story and his bread, they go onagain.Intending to refer his difficulty in finding a temporary place ofrefuge for the boy to his old patient, zealous little Miss Flite,Allan leads the way to the court where he and Jo firstforegathered. But all is changed at the rag and bottle shop; MissFlite no longer lodges there; it is shut up; and a hard-featuredfemale, much obscured by dust, whose age is a problem, but who isindeed no other than the interesting Judy, is tart and spare in herreplies. These sufficing, however, to inform the visitor that MissFlite and her birds are domiciled with a Mrs. Blinder, in BellYard, he repairs to that neighbouring place, where Miss Flite (whorises early that she may be punctual at the divan of justice heldby her excellent friend the Chancellor) comes running downstairswith tears of welcome and with open arms."My dear physician!" cries Miss Flite. "My meritorious,distinguished, honourable officer!" She uses some odd expressions,but is as cordial and full of heart as sanity itself can be--moreso than it often is. Allan, very patient with her, waits until shehas no more raptures to express, then points out Jo, trembling in adoorway, and tells her how he comes there."Where can I lodge him hereabouts for the present? Now, you have afund of knowledge and good sense and can advise me.Miss Flite, mighty proud of the compliment, sets herself toconsider; but it is long before a bright thought occurs to her.Mrs. Blinder is entirely let, and she herself occupies poorGridley's room. "Gridley!" exclaims Miss Flite, clapping her handsafter a twentieth repetition of this remark. "Gridley! To besure! Of course! My dear physician! General George will help usout."It is hopeless to ask for any information about General George, andwould be, though Miss Flite had not akeady run upstairs to put onher pinched bonnet and her poor little shawl and to arm herselfwith her reticule of documents. But as she informs her physicianin her disjointed manner on coming down in full array that GeneralGeorge, whom she often calls upon, knows her dear Fitz Jarndyce andtakes a great interest in all connected with her, Allan is inducedto think that they may be in the right way. So he tells Jo, forhis encouragement, that this walking about will soon be over now;and they repair to the general's. Fortunately it is not far.From the exterior of George's Shooting Gallery, and the long entry,and the bare perspective beyond it, Allan Woodcourt augurs well.He also descries promise in the figure of Mr. George himself,striding towards them in his mornmg exercise with his pipe in hismouth, no stock on, and his muscular arms, developed by broadswordand dumbbell, weightily asserting themselves through his lightshirt-sleeves."Your servant, sir," says Mr. George with a military salute. Good-humouredly smiling all over his broad forehead up into his crisphair, he then defers to Miss Flite, as, with great stateliness, andat some length, she performs the courtly ceremony of presentation.He winds it up with another "Your servant, sir!" and anothersalute."Excuse me, sir. A sailor, I believe?" says Mr. George."I am proud to find I have the air of one," returns Allan; "but Iam only a sea-going doctor.""Indeed, sir! I should have thought you was a regular blue-jacketmyself."Allan hopes Mr. George will forgive his intrusion the more readilyon that account, and particularly that he will not lay aside hispipe, which, in his politeness, he has testifled some intention ofdoing. "You are very good, sir," returns the trooper. "As I knowby experience that it's not disagreeable to Miss Flite, and sinceit's equally agreeable to yourself--" and finishes the sentence byputting it between his lips again. Allan proceeds to tell him allhe knows about Jo, unto which the trooper listens with a graveface."And that's the lad, sir, is it?" he inquires, looking along theentry to where Jo stands staring up at the great letters on thewhitewashed front, which have no meaning in his eyes."That's he," says Allan. "And, Mr. George, I am in this difficultyabout him. I am unwilling to place him in a hospital, even if Icould procure him immediate admission, because I foresee that hewould not stay there many hours if he could be so much as gotthere. The same objection applies to a workhouse, supposing I hadthe patience to be evaded and shirked, and handed about from postto pillar in trying to get him into one, which is a system that Idon't take kindly to.""No man does, sir," returns Mr. George."I am convinced that he would not remain in either place, becausehe is possessed by an extraordinary terror of this person whoordered him to keep out of the way; in his ignorance, he believesthis person to be everywhere, and cognizant of everything.""I ask your pardon, sir," says Mr. George. "But you have notmentioned that party's name. Is it a secret, sir?""The boy makes it one. But his name is Bucket.""Bucket the detective, sir?""The same man.""The man is known to me, sir," returns the trooper after blowingout a cloud of smoke and squaring his chest, "and the boy is so farcorrect that he undoubtedly is a--rum customer." Mr. George smokeswith a profound meaning after this and surveys Miss Flite insilence."Now, I wish Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson at least to know thatthis Jo, who tells so strange a story, has reappeared, and to haveit in their power to speak with him if they should desire to do so.Therefore I want to get him, for the present moment, into any poorlodging kept by decent people where he would be admitted. Decentpeople and Jo, Mr. George," says Allan, following the direction ofthe trooper's eyes along the entry, "have not been much acquainted,as you see. Hence the difficulty. Do you happen to know any onein this neighbourhood who would receive him for a while on mypaying for him beforehand?"As he puts the question, he becomes aware of a dirty-faced littleman standing at the trooper's elbow and looking up, with an oddlytwisted figure and countenance, into the trooper's face. After afew more puffs at his pipe, the trooper looks down askant at thelittle man, and the little man winks up at the trooper."Well, sir," says Mr. George, "I can assure you that I wouldwillingiy be knocked on the head at any time if it would be at allagreeable to Miss Summerson, and consequently I esteem it aprivilege to do that young lady any service, however small. We arenaturally in the vagabond way here, sir, both myself and Phil. Yousee what the place is. You are welcome to a quiet corner of it forthe boy if the same would meet your views. No charge made, exceptfor rations. We are not in a flourishing state of circumstanceshere, sir. We are liable to be tumbled out neck and crop at amoment's notice. However, sir, such as the place is, and so longas it lasts, here it is at your service."With a comprehensive wave of his pipe, Mr. George places the wholebuilding at his visitor's disposal."I take it for granted, sir," he adds, "you being one of themedical staff, that there is no present infection about thisunfortunate subject?"Allan is quite sure of it."Because, sir," says Mr. George, shaking his head sorrowfully, "wehave had enough of that."His tone is no less sorrowfully echoed by his new acquaintance.'Still I am bound to tell you," observes Allan after repeating hisformer assurance, "that the boy is deplorably low and reduced andthat he may be--I do not say that he is--too far gone to recover.""Do you consider him in present danger, sir?" inquires the trooper."Yes, I fear so.""Then, sir," returns the trooper in a decisive manner, "it appearsto me--being naturally in the vagabond way myself--that the soonerhe comes out of the street, the better. You, Phil! Bring him in!"Mr. Squod tacks out, all on one side, to execute the word ofcommand; and the trooper, having smoked his pipe, lays it by. Jois brought in. He is not one of Mrs. Pardiggle's TockahoopoIndians; he is not one of Mrs. Jellyby's lambs, being whollyunconnected with Borrioboola-Gha; he is not softened by distanceand unfamiliarity; he is not a genuine foreign-grown savage; he isthe ordinary home-made article. Dirty, ugly, disagreeable to allthe senses, in body a common creature of the common streets, onlyin soul a heathen. Homely filth begrimes him, homely parasitesdevour him, homely sores are in him, homely rags are on him; nativeignorance, the growth of English soil and climate, sinks hisimmortal nature lower than the beasts that perish. Stand forth,Jo, in uncompromising colours! From the sole of thy foot to thecrown of thy head, there is nothing interesting about thee.He shuffles slowly into Mr. George's gallery and stands huddledtogether in a bundle, looking all about the floor. He seems toknow that they have an inclination to shrink from him, partly forwhat he is and partly for what he has caused. He, too, shrinksfrom them. He is not of the same order of things, not of the sameplace in creation. He is of no order and no place, neither of thebeasts nor of humanity."Look here, Jo!" says Allan. "This is Mr. George."Jo searches the floor for some time longer, then looks up for amoment, and then down again."He is a kind friend to you, for he is going to give you lodgingroom here."Jo makes a scoop with one hand, which is supposed to be a bow.After a little more consideration and some backing and changing ofthe foot on which he rests, he mutters that he is "wery thankful.""You are quite safe here. All you have to do at present is to beobedient and to get strong. And mind you tell us the truth here,whatever you do, Jo.""Wishermaydie if I don't, sir," says Jo, reverting to his favouritedeclaration. "I never done nothink yit, but wot you knows on, toget myself into no trouble. I never was in no other trouble atall, sir, 'sept not knowin' nothink and starwation.""I believe it, now attend to Mr. George. I see he is going tospeak to you.""My intention merely was, sir," observes Mr. George, amazinglybroad and upright, "to point out to him where he can lie down andget a thorough good dose of sleep. Now, look here." As thetrooper speaks, he conducts them to the other end of the galleryand opens one of the little cabins. "There you are, you see! Hereis a mattress, and here you may rest, on good behaviour, as long asMr., I ask your pardon, sir"--he refers apologetically to the cardAllan has given him--"Mr. Woodcourt pleases. Don't you be alarmedif you hear shots; they'll be aimed at the target, and not you.Now, there's another thing I would recommend, sir," says thetrooper, turning to his visitor. "Phil, come here!"Phil bears down upon them according to his usual tactics. "Here isa man, sir, who was found, when a baby, in the gutter.Consequently, it is to be expected that he takes a natural interestin this poor creature. You do, don't you, Phil?""Certainly and surely I do, guv'ner," is Phil's reply."Now I was thinking, sir," says Mr. George in a martial sort ofconfidence, as if he were giving his opinion in a council of war ata drum-head, "that if this man was to take him to a bath and was tolay out a few shillings in getting him one or two coarse articles--""Mr. George, my considerate friend," returns Allan, taking out hispurse, "it is the very favour I would have asked."Phil Squod and Jo are sent out immediately on this work ofimprovement. Miss Flite, quite enraptured by her success, makesthe best of her way to court, having great fears that otherwise herfriend the Chancellor may be uneasy about her or may give thejudgment she has so long expected in her absence, and observing"which you know, my dear physician, and general, after so manyyears, would be too absurdly unfortunate!" Allan takes theopportunity of going out to procure some restorative medicines, andobtaining them near at hand, soon returns to find the trooperwalking up and down the gallery, and to fall into step and walkwith him."I take it, sir," says Mr. George, "that you know Miss Summersonpretty well?"Yes, it appears."Not related to her, sir?"No, it appears."Excuse the apparent curiosity," says Mr. George. "It seemed to meprobable that you might take more than a common interest in thispoor creature because Miss Summerson had taken that unfortunateinterest in him. 'Tis my case, sir, I assure you.""And mine, Mr. George."The trooper looks sideways at Allan's sunburnt cheek and brightdark eye, rapidly measures his height and build, and seems toapprove of him."Since you have been out, sir, I have been thinking that Iunquestionably know the rooms in Lincoln's Inn Fields, where Buckettook the lad, according to his account. Though he is notacquainted with the name, I can help you to it. It's Tulkinghorn.That's what it is."Allan looks at him inquiringly, repeating the name."Tulkinghorn. That's the name, sir. I know the man, and know himto have been in communication with Bucket before, respecting adeceased person who had given him offence. I know the man, sir.To my sorrow."Allan naturally asks what kind of man he is."What kind of man! Do you mean to look at?""I think I know that much of him. I mean to deal with. Generally,what kind of man?""Why, then I'll tell you, sir," returns the trooper, stopping shortand folding his arms on his square chest so angrily that his facefires and flushes all over; "he is a confoundedly bad kind of man.He is a slow-torturing kind of man. He is no more like flesh andblood than a rusty old carbine is. He is a kind of man--byGeorge!--that has caused me more restlessness, and more uneasiness,and more dissatisfaction with myself than all other men puttogether. That's the kind of man Mr. Tulkinghorn is!""I am sorry," says Allan, "to have touched so sore a place.""Sore?" The trooper plants his legs wider apart, wets the palm ofhis broad right hand, and lays it on the imaginary moustache."It's no fault of yours, sir; but you shall judge. He has got apower over me. He is the man I spoke of just now as being able totumble me out of this place neck and crop. He keeps me on aconstant see-saw. He won't hold off, and he won't come on. If Ihave a payment to make him, or time to ask him for, or anything togo to him about, he don't see me, don't hear me--passes me on toMelchisedech's in Clifford's Inn, Melchisedech's in Clifford's Innpasses me back again to him--he keeps me prowling and danglingabout him as if I was made of the same stone as himself. Why, Ispend half my life now, pretty well, loitering and dodging abouthis door. What does he care? Nothing. Just as much as the rustyold carbine I have compared him to. He chafes and goads me till--Bah! Nonsense! I am forgetting myself. Mr. Woodcourt," thetrooper resumes his march, "all I say is, he is an old man; but Iam glad I shall never have the chance of setting spurs to my horseand riding at him in a fair field. For if I had that chance, inone of the humours he drives me into--he'd go down, sir!"Mr. George has been so excited that he finds it necessary to wipehis forehead on his shirt-sleeve. Even while he whistles hisimpetuosity away with the national anthem, some involuntaryshakings of his head and heavings of his chest still linger behind,not to mention an occasional hasty adjustment with both hands ofhis open shirt-collar, as if it were scarcely open enough toprevent his being troubled by a choking sensation. In short, AllanWoodcourt has not much doubt about the going down of Mr.Tulkinghorn on the field referred to.Jo and his conductor presently return, and Jo is assisted to hismattress by the careful Phil, to whom, after due administration ofmedicine by his own hands, Allan confides all needful means andinstructions. The morning is by this time getting on apace. Herepairs to his lodgings to dress and breakfast, and then, withoutseeking rest, goes away to Mr. Jarndyce to communicate hisdiscovery.With him Mr. Jarndyce returns alone, confidentially telling himthat there are reasons for keeping this matter very quiet indeedand showing a serious interest in it. To Mr. Jarndyce, Jo repeatsin substance what he said in the morning, without any materialvariation. Only that cart of his is heavier to draw, and drawswith a hollower sound."Let me lay here quiet and not be chivied no more," falters Jo,"and be so kind any person as is a-passin nigh where I used fur tosleep, as jist to say to Mr. Sangsby that Jo, wot he known once, isa-moving on right forards with his duty, and I'll be wery thankful.I'd be more thankful than I am aready if it wos any ways possiblefor an unfortnet to be it."He makes so many of these references to the law-stationer in thecourse of a day or two that Allan, after conferring with Mr.Jarndyce, good-naturedly resolves to call in Cook's Court, therather, as the cart seems to be breaking down.To Cook's Court, therefore, he repairs. Mr. Snagsby is behind hiscounter in his grey coat and sleeves, inspecting an indenture ofseveral skins which has just come in from the engrosser's, animmense desert of law-hand and parchment, with here and there aresting-place of a few large letters to break the awful monotonyand save the traveller from despair. Mr Snagsby puts up at one ofthese inky wells and greets the stranger with his cough of generalpreparation for business."You don't remember me, Mr. Snagsby?"The stationer's heart begins to thump heavily, for his oldapprehensions have never abated. It is as much as he can do toanswer, "No, sir, I can't say I do. I should have considered--notto put too fine a point upon it--that I never saw you before, sir.""Twice before," says Allan Woodcourt. "Once at a poor bedside, andonce--""It's come at last!" thinks the afflicted stationer, asrecollection breaks upon him. "It's got to a head now and is goingto burst!" But he has sufficient presence of mind to conduct hisvisitor into the little counting-house and to shut the door."Are you a married man, sir?""No, I am not.""Would you make the attempt, though single," says Mr. Snagsby in amelancholy whisper, "to speak as low as you can? For my littlewoman is a-listening somewheres, or I'll forfeit the business andfive hundred pound!"In deep dejection Mr. Snagsby sits down on his stool, with his backagainst his desk, protesting, "I never had a secret of my own, sir.I can't charge my memory with ever having once attempted to deceivemy little woman on my own account since she named the day. Iwouldn't have done it, sir. Not to put too fine a point upon it, Icouldn't have done it, I dursn't have done it. Whereas, andnevertheless, I find myself wrapped round with secrecy and mystery,till my life is a burden to me."His visitor professes his regret to bear it and asks him does heremember Jo. Mr. Snagsby answers with a suppressed groan, oh,don't he!"You couldn't name an individual human being--except myself--thatmy little woman is more set and determined against than Jo," saysMr. Snagsby.Allan asks why."Why?" repeats Mr. Snagsby, in his desperation clutching at theclump of hair at the back of his bald head. "How should 1 knowwhy? But you are a single person, sir, and may you long be sparedto ask a married person such a question!"With this beneficent wish, Mr. Snagsby coughs a cough of dismalresignation and submits himself to hear what the visitor has tocommunicate."There again!" says Mr. Snagsby, who, between the earnestness ofhis feelings and the suppressed tones of his voice is discolouredin the face. "At it again, in a new direction! A certain personcharges me, in the solemnest way, not to talk of Jo to any one,even my little woman. Then comes another certain person, in theperson of yourself, and charges me, in an equally solemn way, notto mention Jo to that other certain person above all other persons.Why, this is a private asylum! Why, not to put too fine a pointupon it, this is Bedlam, sir!" says Mr. Snagsby.But it is better than he expected after all, being no explosion ofthe mine below him or deepening of the pit into which he hasfallen. And being tender-hearted and affected by the account hehears of Jo's condition, he readily engages to "look round" asearly in the evening as he can manage it quietly. He looks roundvery quietly when the evening comes, but it may turn out that Mrs.Snagsby is as quiet a manager as he.Jo is very glad to see his old friend and says, when they are leftalone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should come sofar out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Snagsby,touched by the spectacle before him, immediately lays upon thetable half a crown, that magic balsam of his for all kinds ofwounds."And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?" inquires the stationerwith his cough of sympathy."I am in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," returns Jo, "and don't want fornothink. I'm more cumfbler nor you can't think. Mr. Sangsby! I'mwery sorry that I done it, but I didn't go fur to do it, sir."The stationer softly lays down another half-crown and asks him whatit is that he is sorry for having done."Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, "I went and giv a illness to the lady aswos and yit as warn't the t'other lady, and none of 'em never saysnothink to me for having done it, on accounts of their being sergood and my having been s'unfortnet. The lady come herself and seeme yesday, and she ses, 'Ah, Jo!' she ses. 'We thought we'd lostyou, Jo!' she ses. And she sits down a-smilin so quiet, and don'tpass a word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, she don't,and I turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders,I see him a-forced to turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, hecome fur to giv me somethink fur to ease me, wot he's allus a-doin'on day and night, and wen he come a-bending over me and a-speakinup so bold, I see his tears a-fallin, Mr. Sangsby."The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table.Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy willrelieve his feelings."Wot I was a-thinkin on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, "wos, as youwos able to write wery large, p'raps?""Yes, Jo, please God," returns the stationer."Uncommon precious large, p'raps?" says Jo with eagerness."Yes, my poor boy."Jo laughs with pleasure. "Wot I wos a-thinking on then, Mr.Sangsby, wos, that when I wos moved on as fur as ever I could goand couldn't he moved no furder, whether you might be so goodp'raps as to write out, wery large so that any one could see itanywheres, as that I wos wery truly hearty sorry that I done it andthat I never went fur to do it, and that though I didn't knownothink at all, I knowd as Mr. Woodcot once cried over it and wosallus grieved over it, and that I hoped as he'd be able to forgiveme in his mind. If the writin could be made to say it wery large,he might.""It shall say it, Jo. Very large."Jo laughs again. "Thankee, Mr. Sangsby. It's wery kind of you,sir, and it makes me more cumfbler nor I was afore."The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough,slips down his fourth half-crown--he has never been so close to acase requiring so many--and is fain to depart. And Jo and he, uponthis little earth, shall meet no more. No more.For the cart so hard to draw is near its journey's end and dragsover stony ground. All round the clock it labours up the brokensteps, shattered and worn. Not many times can the sun rise andbehold it still upon its weary road.Phil Squod, with his smoky gunpowder visage, at once acts as nurseand works as armourer at his little table in a corner, oftenlooking round and saying with a nod of his green-baize cap and anencouraging elevation of his one eyebrow, "Hold up, my boy! Holdup!" There, too, is Mr. Jarndyce many a time, and Allan Woodcourtalmost always, both thinking, much, how strangely fate hasentangled this rough outcast in the web of very different lives.There, too, the trooper is a frequent visitor, filling the doorwaywith his athletic figure and, from his superfluity of life andstrength, seeming to shed down temporary vigour upon Jo, who neverfails to speak more robustly in answer to his cheerful words.Jo is in a sleep or in a stupor to-day, and Allan Woodcourt, newlyarrived, stands by him, looking down upon his wasted form. After awhile he softly seats himself upon the bedside with his facetowards him--just as he sat in the law-writer's room--and toucheshis chest and heart. The cart had very nearly given up, butlabours on a little more.The trooper stands in the doorway, still and silent. Phil hasstopped in a low clinking noise, with his little hammer in hishand. Mr. Woodcourt looks round with that grave professionalinterest and attention on his face, and glancing significantly atthe trooper, signs to Phil to carry his table out. When the littlehammer is next used, there will be a speck of rust upon it."Well, Jo! What is the matter? Don't be frightened.""I thought," says Jo, who has started and is looking round, "Ithought I was in Tom-all-Alone's agin. Ain't there nobody here butyou, Mr. Woodcot?""Nobody.""And I ain't took back to Tom-all-Alone's. Am I, sir?""No." Jo closes his eyes, muttering, "I'm wery thankful."After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouthvery near his ear and says to him in a low, distinct voice, "Jo!Did you ever know a prayer?""Never knowd nothink, sir.""Not so much as one short prayer?""No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a-prayin wunst atMr. Sangsby's and I heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos a-speakin to hisself, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but I couldn'tmake out nothink on it. Different times there was other genlmencome down Tom-all-Alone's a-prayin, but they all mostly sed as thet'other 'wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be a-talkingto theirselves, or a-passing blame on the t'others, and not a-talkin to us. We never knowd nothink. I never knowd what it wosall about."It takes him a long time to say this, and few but an experiencedand attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand him.After a short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden,a strong effort to get out of bed."Stay, Jo! What now?""It's time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir," hereturns with a wild look."Lie down, and tell me. What burying ground, Jo?""Where they laid him as wos wery good to me, wery good to meindeed, he wos. It's time fur me to go down to that there berryinground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go thereand be berried. He used fur to say to me, 'I am as poor as you to-day, Jo,' he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him nowand have come there to be laid along with him.""By and by, Jo. By and by.""Ah! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I wos to go myself. But willyou promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him?""I will, indeed.""Thankee, sir. Thankee, sir. They'll have to get the key of thegate afore they can take me in, for it's allus locked. And there'sa step there, as I used for to clean with my broom. It's turnedwery dark, sir. Is there any light a-comin?""It is coming fast, Jo."Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road isvery near its end."Jo, my poor fellow!""I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a-gropin--a-gropin--let mecatch hold of your hand.""Jo, can you say what I say?""I'll say anythink as you say, sir, for I knows it's good.""Our Father.""Our Father! Yes, that's wery good, sir.""Which art in heaven.""Art in heaven--is the light a-comin, sir?""It is close at hand. Hallowed by thy name!""Hallowed be--thy--"The light is come upon the dark benighted way. Dead!Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, rightreverends and wrong reverends of every order. Dead, men and women,born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thusaround us every day.