bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第124节
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old man； sliding every moment lower and lower in his chair； says
quietly； “Now for it！”
“Ho！” cries Mr Smallweed； rubbing his hands with an artful
chuckle。 “Yes。 Now for it。 Now for what； my dear friend？”
“For a pipe；” says Mr George； who with great composure sets
his chair in the chimney…corner； takes his pipe from the grate； fills
it and lights it； and falls to smoking peacefully。
This tends to the discomfiture of Mr Smallweed； who finds it so
difficult to resume his object； whatever it may be； that he becomes
exasperated； and secretly claws the air with an impotent
vindictiveness expressive of an intense desire to tear and rend the
visage of Mr George。 As the excellent old gentleman’s nails are
long and leaden； and his hands lean and veinous； and his eyes
green and watery； and； over and above this； as he continues； while
he claws； to slide down in his chair and to collapse into a shapeless
bundle； he becomes such a ghastly spectacle； even in the
accustomed eyes of Judy； that that young virgin pounces at him
with something more than the ardour of affection； and so shakes
him up； and pats and pokes him in divers parts of his body； but
particularly in that part which the science of self…defence would
call his wind； that in his grievous distress he utters enforced
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sounds like a paviour’s rammer。
When Judy has by these means set him up again in his chair；
with a white face and frosty nose （but still clawing）； she stretches
out her weazen forefinger； and gives Mr George one poke in the
back。 The trooper raising his head； she makes another poke at her
esteemed grandfather； and； having thus brought them together；
stares rigidly at the fire。
“Aye； aye！ Ho； ho！ U—u—u—ugh！” chatters Grandfather
Smallweed； swallowing his rage。 “My dear friend！” （still clawing）。
“I tell you what；” says Mr George。 “If you want to converse with
me； you must speak out。 I am one of the Roughs； and I can’t go
about and about。 I haven’t the art to do it。 I am not clever enough。
It don’t suit me。 When you go winding round and round me；” says
the trooper； putting his pipe between his lips again； “damme； if I
don’t feel as if I was being smothered！”
And he inflates his broad chest to its utmost extent； as if to
assure himself that he is not smothered yet。
“If you have come to give me a friendly call；” continues Mr
George； “I am obliged to you； how are you？ If you have come to
see whether there’s any property on the premises； look about you；
you are welcome。 If you want to out with something； out with it！”
The blooming Judy； without removing her gaze from the fire；
gives her grandfather one ghostly poke。
“You see！ It’s her opinion； too。 And why the devil that young
woman won’t sit down like a Christian；” says Mr George； with his
eyes musingly fixed on Judy； “I can’t comprehend。”
“She keeps at my side to attend to me； sir；” says Grandfather
Smallweed。 “I am an old man； my dear Mr George； and I need
some attention。 I can carry my years； I am not a Brimstone poll…
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parrot；” （snarling and looking unconsciously for the cushion；） “but
I need attention； my dear friend。”
“Well！” returns the trooper； wheeling his chair to face the old
man。 “Now then？”
“My friend in the city； Mr George； has done a little business
with a pupil of yours。”
“Has he？” says Mr George。 “I am sorry to hear it。”
“Yes； sir。” Grandfather Smallweed rubs his legs。 “He is a fine
young soldier now； Mr George； by the name of Carstone。 Friends
came forward； and paid it all up； honourable。”
“Did they？” returns Mr George。 “Do you think your friend in
the city would like a piece of advice？”
“I think he would； my dear friend。 From you。”
“I advise him； then； to do no more business in that quarter。
There’s no more to be got by it。 The young gentleman； to my
knowledge； is brought to a dead halt。”
“No； no； my dear friend。 No； no； Mr George。 No； no； no； sir；”
remonstrates Grandfather Smallweed； cunningly rubbing his
spare legs。 “Not quite a dead halt； I think。 He has good friends；
and he is good for his pay； and he is good for the selling price of
his commission； and he is good for his chance in a lawsuit； and he
is good for his chance in a wife； and—oh； do you know； Mr George；
I think my friend would consider the young gentleman good for
something yet？” says Grandfather Smallweed； turning up his
velvet cap； and scratching his ear like a monkey。
Mr George； who has put aside his pipe and sits with an arm on
his chair…back； beats a tattoo on the ground with his right foot； as
if he were not particularly pleased with the turn the conversation
had taken。
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“But to pass from one subject to another；” resumes Mr
Smallweed。 “To promote the conversation； as a joker might say。
To pass； Mr George； from the ensign to the captain。”
“What are you up to； now？” asked Mr George； pausing with a
frown in stroking the recollection of his moustache。 “What
captain？”
“Our captain。 The captain we know of。 Captain Hawdon。”
“O！ that’s it； is it？” says Mr George； with a low whistle； as he
sees both grandfather and grand…daughter looking hard at him；
you are there！ Well？ what about it？ Come； I won’t be smothered
any more。 Speak！”
“My dear friend；” returns the old man； “I was applied—Judy；
shake me up a little！—I was applied to； yesterday； about the
captain； and my opinion still is； that the captain is not dead。”
“Bosh！” observes Mr George。
“What was your remark； my dear friend？” inquires the old man
with his hand to his ear。
“Bosh！”
“Ho！” says Grandfather Smallweed。 “Mr George； of my opinion
you can judge for yourself according to questions asked of me； and
the reasons given for asking ’em。 Now； what do you think the
lawyer making the inquiries wants？”
“A job；” says Mr George。
“Nothing of the kind！”
“Can’t be a lawyer； then；” says Mr George； folding his arms
with an air of confirmed resolution。
“My dear friend； he is a lawyer and a famous one。 He wants to
see some fragment in Captain Hawdon’s writing。 He don’t want to
keep it。 He only wants to see it； and compare it with a writing in
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his possession。”
“Well？”
“Well； Mr George。 Happening to remember the advertisement
concerning Captain Hawdon； and any information that could be
given respecting him； he looked it up and came to me—just as you
did； my dear friend。 Will you shake hands？ So glad you came； that
day。 I should have missed forming such a friendship； if you hadn’t
come！”
“Well； Mr Smallweed？” says Mr George again； after going
through the ceremony with some stiffness。
“I had no such thing。 I have nothing but his signature。 Plague
pestilence and famine； battle murder and sudden death upon
him；” says the old man； making a curse out of one of his few
remembrances of a prayer； and squeezing up his velvet cap
between his angry hands； “I have half a million of his signatures；
