I go and sit down comfortably for life, and no
man never finds me out. What would be the credit of the landlord of the
Dragon's being jolly? Why, he couldn't help it, if he tried.'

'Does Mrs Lupin know you are going to leave her?' Mr Pinch inquired.

'I haven't broke it to her yet, sir, but I must. I'm looking out this
morning for something new and suitable,' he said, nodding towards the
city.

'What kind of thing now?' Mr Pinch demanded.

'I was thinking,' Mark replied, 'of something in the grave-digging.
way.'

'Good gracious, Mark?' cried Mr Pinch.

'It's a good damp, wormy sort of business, sir,' said Mark, shaking his
head argumentatively, 'and there might be some credit in being jolly,
with one's mind in that pursuit, unless grave-diggers is usually given
that way; which would be a drawback. You don't happen to know how that
is in general, do you, sir?'

'No,' said Mr Pinch, 'I don't indeed. I never thought upon the subject.'

'In case of that not turning out as well as one could wish, you know,'
said Mark, musing again, 'there's other businesses. Undertaking now.
That's gloomy. There might be credit to be gained there. A broker's man
in a poor neighbourhood wouldn't be bad perhaps. A jailor sees a deal of
misery. A doctor's man is in the very midst of murder. A bailiff's an't
a lively office nat'rally. Even a tax-gatherer must find his feelings
rather worked upon, at times. There's lots of trades in which I should
have an opportunity, I think.'

Mr Pinch was so perfectly overwhelmed by these remarks that he could
do nothing but occasionally exchange a word or two on some indifferent
subject, and cast sidelong glances at the bright face of his odd friend
(who seemed quite unconscious of his observation), until they reached a
certain corner of the road, close upon the outskirts of the city, when
Mark said he would jump down there, if he pleased.

'But bless my soul, Mark,' said Mr Pinch, who in the progress of
his observation just then made the discovery that the bosom of his
companion's shirt was as much exposed as if it was Midsummer, and was
ruffled by every breath of air, 'why don't you wear a waistcoat?'

'What's the good of one, sir?' asked Mark.

'Good of one?' said Mr Pinch. 'Why, to keep your chest warm.'

'Lord love you, sir!' cried Mark, 'you don't know me. My chest don't
want no warming. Even if it did, what would no waistcoat bring it to?
Inflammation of the lungs, perhaps? Well, there