“What,” said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after

missing his mark“what are you up to, Aggerawayter?”

“I was only saying my prayers.”

“Saying your prayers! You’re a nice woman! What do you mean

by flopping yourself down and praying agin me?”

“I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.”

“You weren’t. And if you were, I won’t be took the liberty with.

Here! your mother’s a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying

agin your father’s prosperity. You’ve got a dutiful mother, you

have, my son. You’ve got a religious mother, you have, my boy:

going and flopping herself down, and praying that the bread-and-

butter may be snatched out of the mouth of her only child.”

Master Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and,

turning to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his

personal board.

“And what do you suppose, you conceited female,” said Mr.

Cruncher, with unconscious inconsistency, “that the worth of your

prayers may be? Name the price that you put your prayers at!”

“They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more

than that.”

“Worth no more than that,” repeated Mr. Cruncher. “They ain’t

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

worth much, then. Whether or no, I won’t be prayed agin, I tell

you. I can’t afford it. I’m not a going to be made unlucky by your

sneaking.