were usually kept in chalk. There was no record of his name.
Some names were there, but they were strange to him, and infinitely
fewer than of old; from which he argued that the porter was an advocate
of ready money transactions, and on coming into the business had looked
pretty sharp after the Chickenstalker defaulters.

So desolate was Trotty, and so mournful for the youth and promise of his
blighted child, that it was a sorrow to him, even to have no place in
Mrs. Chickenstalker's ledger.

"What sort of a night is it, Anne?" inquired the former porter of Sir
Joseph Bowley, stretching out his legs before the fire, and rubbing as
much of them as his short arms could reach; with an air that added,
"Here I am if it's bad, and I don't want to go out if it's good."

"Hard weather indeed," returned his wife, shaking her head.

"Ay, ay! Years," said Mr. Tugby, "are like Christians in that respect.
Some of 'em die hard; some of 'em die easy. This one hasn't many days to
run, and is making a fight for it. I like him all the better. There's a
customer, my love!"

Attentive to the rattling door, Mrs. Tugby had already risen.

"Now, then!" said that lady, passing out into the little shop. "What's
wanted? Oh! I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure. I didn't think it was
you."

She made this apology to a gentleman in black, who, with his wristbands
tucked up, and his hat cocked loungingly on one side, and his hand in
his pocket, sat down astride on the table-beer barrel, and nodded in
return.

"This is a bad business up-stairs, Mrs. Tugby," said the gentleman.
"The man can't live."

"Not the back-attic can't!" cried Tugby, coming out into the shop to
join the conference.

"The back-attic, Mr. Tugby," said the gentleman, "is coming down-stairs
fast, and will be below the basement very soon."

Looking by turns at Tugby and his wife, he sounded the barrel with his
knuckles for the depth of beer, and having found it, played a tune upon
the empty part.

"The back-attic, Mr. Tugby," said the gentleman: Tugby having stood in
silent consternation for some time; "is Going."

"Then," said Tugby, turning to his wife, "he must Go, you know, before
he's Gone."

"I don't think you can move him," said the gentleman, shaking his head.
"I wouldn't take the responsibility of saying it could be done, myself.
You had better leave him where he is. He can't live long."

"It's the only subject," said Tugby, bringing the butter-scale down upo