Chapter 22 Chapter Fourteen The Honest Businessman

Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his bench in Fleet Street with his ugly urchin, had before him every day a great stream of colorful things.Who could sit in Fleet Street at such a busy hour without being dazzled and deafened by the two great streams of people!One stream of people follows the sun endlessly westward, one stream faces the sun endlessly eastward, and both streams of people are heading towards the plain beyond the red and purple mountains at sunset! Mr. Cruncher watched the two streams of people with hay in his mouth, like a pagan bumpkin who has stared at a river for centuries--only he wasn't waiting for the river to dry up.Besides it was a hopeless business, since a small part of his income was derived from navigating timid women (often well-dressed women of middle age and older) from the Tellson side of the torrent to the opposite bank.In spite of the briefness of each contact with his visitor, Mr. Cruncher was always interested in the lady, and even expressed a strong desire to have the honor of toasting her health.His economic income is just the gift of thanks from this act of saving all living beings.We have just said this.

There used to be poets who sat on a bench in a public place and gazed at passers-by in meditation.Mr. Cruncher was also sitting on a bench in the public place, but he was not a poet, so he just looked around, trying not to meditate as much as possible. When he looked around, it happened to be a time when there were not many pedestrians, there were few women in a hurry, and the business was not booming.This made him strongly suspect that Mrs. Cruncher was "kneeling" again with impunity.Then an unusual stream of people rolling westward from Fleet Street caught his attention.Mr. Cruncher looked in that direction, and saw that a funeral procession was coming, and there was an uproar caused by the obstruction.

"Little Jerry," said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring, "buries the dead." "Whoa, Daddy!" exclaimed Jerry Jerry. There was something mysterious about the young master's elated cry.But the master was very angry, and took the opportunity to slap him. "What do you mean? Whoa what? What are you trying to say to your father, little bastard? I'm getting more and more sick of you boy and your 'uh-wah'!" Mr. Cruncher looked at him. Say. "Don't let me hear you screaming like that again, or I will let you taste my taste, do you hear me?"

"I didn't hurt anyone," protested Jerry Jerry, rubbing his cheek. "Shut up," said Mr. Cruncher, "I don't care if you hurt anybody or not. Sit in your seat and watch the fun." His son obeyed, and the crowd came.They were hooting and hissing at a dirty hearse and a dirty funeral car.There was only one mourner in the funeral car, dressed in the filthy attire recognized as befitting such a solemn occasion.But his situation did not seem to please him.There were more and more people round the carriage, taunting him, making faces at him, and yelling now and then, "Ah! Spy! Tut! Yah! Spy!" compliments.

The funeral procession had at any time a startling fascination for Mr. Cruncher.Whenever a funeral procession passed Tellson, his eyes, ears, nose, and tongue were all excited.Naturally, therefore, the funeral procession which had attracted such an unusual crowd would excite him.He asked the first person who came running towards him: "What's that, man, what's the fuss?" "I don't know," said the man. "Spy! Haha! Tsk tsk! Spy!" He asked another person, "Who?" "I don't know," replied the man, clapping his hands to his mouth, and shouting with astonishing heat and maximum energy, "Spy! Yaha! Tsk-tut! Tsk-tut! Secret-agent!"

At last he was bumped into by someone who knew the truth better, and he heard from that person that it was the funeral of a man named Roger Clay. "A spy?" asked Cruncher. "Old Baylor's agent," said his informant, "Yah! Tut! Yah! Old Baylor's secret-erh-check!" "Ah, that's right!" Jerry recalled a trial in which he had worked a little. "I've seen him. Dead, isn't he?" "Dead as mutton," answered the other, "dead as hell. Get 'em out, O, Agent! Drag 'em out, O, Agent!" People were short of ideas, but his suggestion was quite acceptable, so everyone hurriedly grabbed hold of it and repeated loudly, "Catch it, drag it out." The crowd surrounded him, and the two cars had to stop.The crowd opened the car doors, and the lone mourner had to wrestle his way out.He was caught for a moment, but he was cunning and good at taking his time, and in an instant he was darting away down a lonely street, and mourning clothes, hats, hatbands, white handkerchiefs, and other symbols of tears were all gone. dropped it.

People tore him to pieces and threw them all around merrily.Now the merchant hastily closed the shop, because the crowd at that time was a terrible monster, capable of anything.The crowd had reached the point where they were about to open the hearse and drag the coffin out.But some brighter genius came up with another idea: it would be better for everyone to have fun and send that thing to its destination.Realistic ideas are what are needed at this time, so this opinion is warmly welcomed.In an instant, there were already eight people in the carriage and a dozen people outside.People climbed on top of the hearse again.They showed their ingenuity and squeezed as much as they could stay.Jerry Cruncher was the first of this batch of volunteers.He squeezed into the corner of the funeral car, and politely concealed his briar head from Tellson's men.

The undertakers who presided over the funeral protested against this alteration of the ceremony, but the dreaded river was nearby, and several voices were calling for cold immersion therapy to wake up the recalcitrant among the undertakers. Sober, the protest can only be short and weak.The reorganized team set off.A chimney sweep drove the hearse—advised by a driver who sat beside him, and the driver himself was closely watched.A pie seller was also driving the funeral car, assisted by his Prime Minister.Not long after the mighty crowd walked onto Hebin Road, a bear-leader was also pulled in as an embellishment—this kind of person was very noticeable and popular on the street at that time.And the black-haired bear covered with mange walked in the procession with an air of heavy mourning.

And so went the smoky procession, some drinking beer, some smoking pipes, some singing, and still others pretending to be weeping endlessly.They recruited troops along the way, and all the shops closed their doors when they saw them.The party's destination was St Pancras in the far countryside.They arrived on time, insisted on pouring into the cemetery, and ended up burying the dead Roger Clay in the form they liked, and with great satisfaction. After the dead were dealt with, the crowd was eager to find another entertainment.Another, more brilliant genius (perhaps the one just now) has come up with a program to take revenge on random passers-by as agents of the Old Baylor for a demolition.Twenty or so innocent passers-by who had never been near the Old Baylor in their lives were chased, roughly pushed, and abused to fulfill this fantasy.The transition from this game to smashing windows and robbing hotels with guns is a logical one.Finally, as the hours passed, several gazebos were knocked down and several fences were taken down to arm the more militant warriors.Then rumors arose that the guards were coming.Upon hearing the rumor, the crowd gradually dispersed.The guard may have come, or may not have come at all.In short, the whole process of mob activities is like this.

Mr. Cruncher, who did not take part in the closing games, remained in the cemetery, chatting with the undertakers and expressing his regret.The graveyard had a soothing and calming effect on him.He got a pipe from a nearby tavern, smoked it, and looked through the fence at the cemetery, thinking about it carefully. "Jerry," said Mr. Cruncher, speaking to himself as usual. "You saw this Clay that day. You saw him with your own eyes. He was still young and strong." He finished his cigarette and pondered for a while before turning around, trying to get back to his post in Tellson before the end of get off work.It doesn't matter whether thinking about moral issues hurt his liver, or whether his health has always been troubled, or whether he wants to pay a little respect to a distinguished person, anyway, he is on his way home. Looked at his health advisor - an excellent surgeon.

Jerry Jr., who took over his dad's job with dedication and interest, reported to him that he had no assignments since he left.The bank closed, the aging clerks came out, and the doorman went to work as usual.Cruncher and his son also went home to tea. "Well, I'll tell you what the problem is," said Mr. Cruncher to his wife as soon as he entered. "As an honest businessman, if something goes wrong with my activities tonight, I will definitely find out that you prayed for me to be unlucky again, then I will deal with you as if I saw it with my own eyes." A dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head. "Well, you're praying in my presence!" said Mr. Cruncher, with pensive indignation. "But I didn't say anything." "That's good, then don't think about it. If you think about it, you can think about it when you kneel down, or you can think about it if you don't kneel down. If you want to oppose me, you can oppose me in this way, or in that way, but I will never allow it." .” "Yes, Jerry." "Yes, Jerry," repeated Mr. Cruncher, sitting down to his tea. "Ah! Always 'Yes Jerry', only one word, only 'Yes Jerry!" Mr. Cruncher's chagrined confirmation meant nothing in particular, except a bit of whining with its sneer--not uncommonly done by ordinary people. "You and your 'yes Jerry,'" Mr. Cruncher took a bite of the brioche bread, as if swallowing a large invisible oyster on the plate, "oh, that's it! I believe you." "Are you going out tonight?" asked his respectable wife.He took another bite of the bread. "want to go out." "May I go out with you too, Dad?" his son asked hastily. "No, you can't. I'm going—your mother knows—to fish. To a fishing place, to fish." "Isn't your fishing rod very rusty, Dad?" "Don't worry about it." "Will you bring fish home, Daddy?" "If I don't bring it back, you'll be hungry tomorrow," replied the gentleman, shaking his head. "Then you're going to be in big trouble. I'm not going out until long after you've gone to sleep." He watched Mrs. Cruncher with great vigilance the rest of the evening, talking sullenly to her, and keeping her from praying against him.For this reason, he also let his son talk to her, find some excuses to complain about her, and did not give her a moment to think, so that the unfortunate woman suffered a lot.Even the most God-believing man is less convinced of the efficacy of devout prayers than he doubts the efficacy of his wife's prayers.It's like a person who professes to not believe in ghosts is terrified by ghost stories. "You must watch!" said Mr. Cruncher. "Don't play tricks tomorrow! If I, as an honest businessman, could get a leg or two tomorrow, you wouldn't have bread and no meat. If I, as an An honest businessman can get a little beer, so you don't have to drink water. If you sing any song on any mountain, if you sing the wrong key, no one will buy your account. I am your mountain, you know." Then he started complaining again: "You're a sucker for food and drink! I don't know how much your kneeling and praying tricks and hard-hearted nonsense will leave the family short of food and drink. Look at your son! Isn't he Your own? But he's as thin as a plank. You call yourself a mother, but don't you understand that a mother's first duty is to make her son fat?" These words touched the heart of little Jerry.He immediately asked his mother to perform her first duty.No matter how many other things she did, or didn't do, she had to put a lot of emphasis on fulfilling the role of mother that Papa so sadly and tenderly pointed out. Thus the night at the Crunchers' house passed away like this, until Young Jerry was ordered to bed, and his mother was given the same instructions, and obeyed them.Mr. Cruncher passed the first few hours of the night smoking pot after pot by himself, and was not ready to start until about midnight.At one or two o'clock in the morning, that is, the time when the ghosts haunted him, he stood up beside the chair, took out the key from his pocket, opened the cabinet, took out a pocket, a crowbar of moderate size, and a Rope and "fishing tackle" of this kind.He packed them up expertly, took a contemptuous farewell to Mrs. Cruncher, put out the light, and went out. Jerry Jerry only pretended to take off his clothes when he went to bed, and soon after he was following his father.Using the darkness as a cover, he followed him out of the house, down the stairs, into the yard, and into the street.He wasn't worried that he wouldn't be able to enter the compound when he got home, because there were so many tenants and the door was open all night. He had a laudable ambition to explore the art and mystery of his father's honest vocation.Motivated by this, Jerry Jr. walked as close as possible to the facades, walls, and door openings of houses (as close as his eyes), and followed behind his respectable father.Not far north, his venerable father joined another disciple of Isaac Walton, and they staggered forward together. Less than half an hour after they set off, they left the drowsy lights and even more drowsy night watchmen, and embarked on a deserted road.Here they rejoined another angler—and there was no sound at all.If little Jerry had been superstitious, he would have thought he was a second angler who had suddenly split in two. The three of them walked forward, and so did Jerry.Come to the bottom of a stone ridge overlooking the road.On the top of the stone ridge, there is a low brick wall with an iron railing on it.In the shadow of a stone ridge and a brick wall, the three of them broke away from the main road and entered a dead-end alley where the short wall rose eight or ten feet to form one side of the alley.Little Jerry squatted down in a corner and looked into the alley.The first thing he saw was the figure of his venerable father, clearly outlined against the cloudy moonlight, deftly climbing up an iron gate, and quickly turned over.A second angler flipped over too, and then a third.All three of them landed lightly on the ground inside the door, lay there for a while—perhaps listening to the sound, and then crawled away on hands and feet. Now it was Jerry's turn to approach the gate: he walked over, holding his breath, crouched in a corner, looked in, and vaguely saw three anglers crawling between some weeds and the tombstones in the cemetery. In the past—the cemetery was huge.The three were like ghosts in white robes, and the church tower was like the ghost of a towering giant.They didn't go far before they stopped and stood up.So I started fishing. At first they fished with shovels.Then the venerable father seemed to be adjusting what looked like a gigantic corkscrew.No matter what tools they use, they all work hard.It wasn't until the church bell rang that little Jerry was startled and ran away.His hair stood up like his father's thorns. But his long-awaited desire to explore this secret not only stopped him, but tempted him to run back again.The three men were still fishing persistently when he looked in through the gate for the second time.But now the fish seems to have taken the bait.There was the sound of drilling from below, and their hunched bodies also tightened, as if they were pulling something heavy.The thing gradually broke free from the soil pressing on it and exposed the ground.Little Jerry knew exactly what it would be, but when he saw it, and saw his venerable father about to pry it open, he was terrified out of his wits because he had never seen such a sight, and the second Once again he ran away, and kept running for a mile or more before stopping. If it wasn't because he had to pant for breath, he would never have dared to stop.It was as if he were running with a ghost, and he wanted to get rid of it very much. He had a strong impression that the coffin he saw seemed to be chasing him. It would jump around him as if grabbing him—maybe trying to grab his arm! —he had to dodge.It was also an ethereal, omnipresent phantom, making the whole night behind it frightening.In order to avoid the dark alley, he ran onto the road, afraid that the thing would jump out of the alley like a kite with no tail or wings suffering from dropsy.The thing, too, hid in the door opening, and brushed against the door with its terrible shoulders, which shrugged up to the ears, as if laughing.The thing also crept into the shadows on the road, lying slyly, trying to trip him, and following him all the way, getting closer and closer.So when the boy ran back to his own door, he had every reason to think he was half dead.Even after entering the house, the thing didn't leave him, still followed him up the stairs step by step, got into the bed with him, and jumped to the floor after he fell asleep. On his chest, it was dead and heavy. Little Jerry, who was sleeping in the cabin after dawn and before sunrise, was awakened from his oppressive lethargy by his father in the main room.Something must be wrong with him, at least that's what young Jerry thought, because he was grabbing Mrs. Cruncher by the ear and banging the back of her head against the bed. "I told you I would teach you," said Mr. Cruncher, "I told you, you." 'Jerry, Jerry, Jerry! ' pleaded his wife. "When you fight against my business interests," Jerry said, "me and my partner suffer. You have to respect me and obey me, why the hell don't you do it?" "I'm trying to be a good wife, Jerry," protested the poor woman, tearfully. "Is it a good wife to be against your husband's business? Is it to respect your husband's business by causing him bad luck? Is it to obey him if you refuse to obey him on key issues in your husband's business?" "But you weren't in that dreadful business then, Jerry." "You only need," retorted Cruncher, "to be the wife of an honest businessman. As for what your husband does or does not do, you, a woman, don't worry about it. A wife who respects and obeys her husband will not interfere His business. Didn’t you say that you are a very pious woman? If you can be considered a pious woman, let me show you as an ungodly woman! You have no natural sense of responsibility in your heart, just like the river Thames. It’s like not getting money. You should put some sense of responsibility in your head.” The curse was low, and ended with the honest businessman kicking off his mud-covered boots, stretching himself out onto the bed.His son peeped timidly, saw him lying on the bed with his rusty hands behind his head as a pillow, lay down himself, and fell asleep again. There was no fish for breakfast and not much else.Mr. Cruncher, listless and sullen, kept an iron pan-lid at hand as a hidden weapon in correcting Mrs. Cruncher, in case he caught signs of her praying.After washing up on time, he took his son to engage in the nominal occupation. Young Jerry, with a little bench under his arm, followed his father along sunny and crowded Fleet Street.He was very different from the Jerry who had run home last night in darkness and solitude from his hideous pursuer.His cunning is renewed with the day, and his fear with the night fades.In this respect, there were not few people in Fleet Street and the City of London on that fine morning who were in his condition. "Dad," said Jerry Jerry when the two were walking together, keeping an arm's distance from his father with a bench between them, "what is a 'resurrection dealer'?" Mr. Cruncher stopped in the street, and replied, "How should I know." "I thought you knew everything, Daddy," said the innocent boy. "Well! Well," said Mr. Cruncher, stepping forward again, taking off his hat, showing his caltrops in full display, "a 'resurrection dealer' is a man who deals in a commodity." "What's the business, Daddy?" asked sharp little Jerry. "What he's running is——" Cruncher thought about it in his heart, "a commodity needed for scientific research." "A human body, papa?" asked the lively boy. "I believe it's something of that sort," said Mr. Cruncher. "When I grow up, ah, Dad, I really want to be a resurrection dealer!" Mr. Cruncher, comforted, shook his head with a sort of moral ambiguity. "That depends on how you develop your talents. Carefully cultivate your talents! Try not to tell others about this kind of thing. You may not be suitable for some jobs, and you can't tell now." Little Jerry was encouraged by this He walked forward a few yards and placed the small bench in the shadow of the Law Society building.Then Mr. Cruncher said to himself: "Jerry, you honest businessman, that boy has hope of making you happy. He'll make up for his mother's want!"