Tellson’s. Naturally, therefore, a funeral

with this uncommon attendance excited him greatly, and he asked

of the first man who ran against him:

“What is it, brother? What’s it about?”

“I don’t know,” said the man. “Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!”

He asked another man. “Who is it?”

“I don’t know,” returned the other man, clapping his hands to

his mouth, nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and

with the greatest ardour, “Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi-ies!”

At length, a person better informed on the merits of the case,

tumbled against him, and 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

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

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