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counting-house, and copying-office. Mr Tulkinghorn sits, facing
round, on a stool at the desk.
「Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Snagsby.」
「Yes, sir.」 Mr Snagsby turns up the gas, and coughs behind his
hand, modestly anticipating profit. Mr Snagsby, as a timid man, is
accustomed to cough with a variety of expressions, and so to save
words.
「You copied some affidavits in that cause for me lately.」
「Yes, sir, we did.」
「There was one of them,」 says Mr Tulkinghorn, carelessly
feeling—tight, unopenable Oyster of the old school!—in the wrong
coat pocket, 「the handwriting of which is peculiar, and I rather
like. As I happened to be passing, and thought I had it about me, I
looked in to ask you—but I haven’t got it. No matter, any other
time will do—Ah! here it is!—I looked in to ask you who copied
this?」
「Who copied this, sir?」 says Mr Snagsby, taking it, laying it flat
on the desk, and separating all the sheets at once with a twirl and
a twist of the left hand peculiar to law-stationers. 「We gave this
out, sir. We were giving out rather a large quantity of work just at
that time. I can tell you in a moment who copied it, sir, by
referring to my Book.」
Mr Snagsby takes his Book down from the safe, makes another
bolt of the bit of bread and butter which seemed to have stopped
short, eyes the affidavit aside, and brings his right forefinger
travelling down a page of the Book. 「Jewby—Packer—Jarndyce.」
「Jarndyce! Here we are, sir,」 says Mr Snagsby. 「To be sure! I
might have remembered it. This was given out, sir, to a Writer who
lodges just over on the opposite side of the lane.」
Charles Dickens
ElecBook Classics
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Bleak House
189
Mr Tulkinghorn has seen the entry, found it before the Lawstationer, read it while the forefinger was coming down the hill.
「What do you call him? Nemo?」 says Mr Tulkinghorn.
「Nemo, sir. Here it is. Forty-two folio. Given out on the
Wednesday night, at eight o』clock; brought in on the Thursday
morning at half after nine.」
「Nemo!」 repeats Mr Tulkinghorn. 「Nemo is Latin for no one.」
「It must be English for some one, sir, I think,」 Mr Snagsby
submits, with his deferential cough. 「It is a person’s name. Here it
is, you see, sir! Forty-two folio. Given out Wednesday night, eight
o』clock; brought in, Thursday morning, half after nine.」
The tail of Mr Snagsby’s eye becomes conscious of the head of
Mrs Snagsby looking in at the shop-door to know what he means
by deserting his tea. Mr Snagsby addresses an explanatory cough
to Mrs Snagsby, as who should say, 「My dear, a customer!」
「Half after nine, sir,」 repeats Mr Snagsby. 「Our law-writers,
who live by job-work, are a queer lot; and this may not be his
name, but it’s the name he goes by. I remember now, sir, that he
gives it in a written advertisement he sticks up down at the Rule
Office, and the King’s Bench Office, and the Judges』 Chambers,
and so forth. You know the kind of document, sir—wanting
employ?」
Mr Tulkinghorn glances through the little window at the back
of Coavins’s, the sheriff’s officer’s, where lights shine in Coavins’s
windows. Coavins’s coffee-room is at the back, and the shadows of
several gentlemen under a cloud loom cloudily upon the blinds.
Mr Snagsby takes the opportunity of slightly turning his head, to
glance over his shoulder at his little woman, and to make
apologetic motions with his mouth to this effect:
Charles Dickens
ElecBook Classics