somewhere till he was old. They kept him in a dark place, like a

cheese, until he had the full Tellson flavour and blue-mould upon

him. Then only was he permitted to be seen, spectacularly poring

over large books, and casting his breeches and gaiters into the

general weight of the establishment.

Outside Tellson’snever by any means in it, unless called in

was an odd-job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who

served as the live sign of the house. He was never absent during

business hours, unless upon an errand, and then he was

represented by his son: a grisly urchin of twelve, who was his

express image. People understood that Tellson’s, in a stately way,

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

tolerated the odd-job-man. The house had always tolerated some

person in that capacity, and time and tide had drifted this person

to the post. His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful

occasion of his renouncing by proxy the works of darkness, in the

easterly parish church of Houndsditch, he had received the added

appellation of Jerry.

The scene was Mr. Cruncher’s private lodging in Hangingsword

Alley, Whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock and

a windy March morning, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and

eighty. (Mr. Cruncher himself always spoke of the year of our Lord

as Anna Dominoes: apparently under the impression t