“May I go with you, father?” asked his son, briskly.

“No, you mayn’t. I’m a goingas your mother knowsa

fishing. That’s where I’m going to. Going a fishing.”

“Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty; don’t it, father?”

“Never you mind.”

“Shall you bring any fish home, father?”

“If I don’t, you’ll have short commons, tomorrow,” returned

that gentleman, shaking his head; “that’s questions enough for

you; I ain’t a going out, till you’ve been long a-bed.”

He devoted himself during the remainder of the evening to

keeping a most vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and sullenly

holding her in conversation that she might be prevented from

meditating any petitions to his disadvantage. With this view, he

urged his son to hold her in conversation also, and led the

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling on any causes of

complaint he could bring against her, rather than he would leave

her for a moment to her own reflections. The devoutest person

could have rendered no greater homage to the efficacy of an

honest prayer than he did in this distrust of his wife. It was as if a

professed unbeliever in ghosts should be frightened by a ghost

story.

“And mind you!” said Mr. Cruncher. “No games tomorrow! If I,

as a honest tradesman, succeed in providing a jinte of meat or two,

none of your not touc