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out-of-context-charlie · 4 years

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(this is the first fic i have ever published so like it is totally self-indulgent and probably garbage but whatever here we are)

It was a rainy day in Dragon City.

On the darkened sidewalk, a pair of expensive shoes walked with purpose under a dark blue umbrella. Anybody else stupid enough to be out in the downpour steered clear of the man wearing them, hiding within their overcoats and hats to avoid his piercing glare. Eventually he stopped at a clunky brownstone at the edge of town. He looked up at it and then back down at the scrawl on the piece of paper in his hand to make sure he had the right place.

Zhao Yunlan wished he had not given up smoking. There was a certain beauty to watching smoke rise and curl in the dark gray light that a storm cast into his office. The sucker did not offer the same satisfaction and only added to his boredom.

He looked absently at his scuffed shoes propped up on the desk, streaking mud over the various “important” documents he was supposed to be going over. Under his heel was yet another letter from his father cursing him out for getting fired from the DCPD, or rather quitting in an extravagant fashion. He caused quite the scandal, the only son of Police Commissioner Zhao blowing the whistle on a cover-up involving a dirty cop.

Now here Zhao Yunlan sat in a converted shoe factory, the chief of his own dysfunctional precinct. Alongside him was a ratty bunch of investigators: one convict, a runaway, a crackpot scientist, and a street urchin who believed he could talk to cats. His secretaries couldn’t even read for shit. Some days he thought the only one qualified to be in this line of work was Old Li, the janitor. Not to mention taking cases for whatever street scum needed a favor that day.

There had been a whole host of characters who’d crawled through his door and if they could pay, he would shine their shoes. Like yesterday, he had finished up a case involving a prize fighter wanting to expose a murderous boss. Then he also had the better clients, like the businessman whose daughter and her fiance went missing. He paid well, even if the culprit mysteriously disappeared.

“Old Zhao!” Da Qing crashed through the door, looking as clueless and alarmed as usual.

Zhao Yunlan pulled the sucker out of his mouth with a smack and waved it at him. “Speak.”

Da Qing stood up straighter and attempted to smooth down his shirt but only succeeded in getting more dirt on it. He cleared his throat. “Ah, there’s someone here. A very well-dressed someone who says he needs urgent help.” And to add to Zhao Yulan’s headache, he winked.

Zhao Yunlan rolled his eyes. A few years ago, Da Qing began talking in code to make the clients feel more at ease, or to make the department itself look more interesting and mysterious. The only one in said department who humored him was Old Li, but that was just because the old man felt parental toward him. “So somebody very rich is very desperate, got it. Just send him in.”

With a pout, Da Qing retreated through the door and Zhao Yunlan slid his feet off the desk and half-heartedly put the cluttered papers into a stack. Normally he would just leave it since seeing the disorganization put people at ease. But if the client was higher class then it was actually the complete opposite. The more it looked organized and official, the more they felt they were not stooping down to another level. Then again, it was also very fun to watch a man in a suit squirm.

The door opened again and a man walked through it. This time, Zhao Yunlan was the one squirming.

Instead of some fat, sweaty businessman, the client standing before him was incredibly handsome. A professionally tailed blue pinstripe clung to a tall frame, accenting the rigid muscles beneath. He wore a matching fedora low on his head and round glasses that glinted in the low light.

The client moved respectfully to the side, clasping his hands in front of him as Da Qing stumbled in. “Old Zhao, this is Professor Shen Wei. Professor, Detective -- ah, ex-detective -- I, mean.” He paused and collected his bearings. He started again, calmly. “Professor, Zhao Yunlan. He is the leader around here.”

A professor? That was a new one. Zhao Yunlan popped the sucker back in his mouth and looked at Da Qing. “You can leave now, Fatty. Also, tell Zhu Hong that if I don’t have the files on the Crow murders by two today, I'll break her legs.” Da Qing nodded and backed out quickly. When the door closed, Zhao Yunlan gestured to the seat in front of him. “Professor Shen, please sit down.”

Shen Wei cleared his throat and sat down neatly, placing his hat on the table in front of him. “Is it really appropriate to call your subordinate ‘Fatty?” He asked in a smooth, deep voice that made Zhao Yunlan momentarily forget he was supposed to be a professional PI.

“If you saw how much it costs to feed him, you’d know that ‘Fatty’ is being extremely generous. But we are not here to talk about him..” Said Zhao Yunlan quickly, leaning back in his chair. He schooled his face into the usual business casual (slightly annoyed yet still charismatic) and waved a finger at him. “You have a problem, Professor Shen. Tell me.”

Shen Wei’s lips tightened into what may have been considered an attempt to smile and he folded his hands neatly in his lap. “I heard that you are who to call when you need somebody found.”

Zhao Yunlan grinned. “I have been known to catch a stray or two, yes.”

“Do you know of a girl by the name of Li Qian?”

“Mm. Nineteen year old female found dead at the docks two nights ago.”

“She was one of my brightest students.” The professor's jaw clenched and a shadow passed over his eyes. “She took care of her grandmother, the owner of a store known for priceless antiques. One of which Li Qian wore around her neck everywhere she went. There-”

Zhao Yunlan interrupted him with a large sigh and put his hands behind his head. “Professor Shen, as much as I love listening to you speak, you really came down here to talk to me about a suicide? Or you did. In that case, I’ve solved it!” He suddenly leaned forward and threw his arms out. “Li Qian was the killer.”

The shadow flickered again and Shen Wei looked like he was biting his tongue. “Please do not joke about her death, Detective.” Even though his face remained passive, there was a large amount of venom in his words.

“Ex-detective, actually.” Zhao Yunlan corrected him. “But like I said, those at the scene ruled it a suicide. She drowned.”

“I know that.” Professor Shen pushed up his glasses and shifted slightly. “I talked to the police myself and asked about the circumstances. Those circumstances make me believe they made the wrong call.”

“You think she was murdered?”

Although he had not been at the scene, Zhao Yunlan still had friends in the department who would occasionally let him peek at cases. The girl was found in the harbor with sea water in her lungs. Not a scrap of evidence suggesting otherwise. As far as he could tell, the poor kid flung herself off one of the bridges and ended up there for the fisherman to find.

“Why?” Zhao Yunlan asked, cocking his head.

Shen Wei pushed up his glasses again. “Her necklace was missing. Zhao Yunlan, this is not an arbitrary fact. Her grandmother is extremely ill and does not have access to proper care, so she does not have much time left. Not once did I see my student without that necklace around her neck. She clung to it like it was a piece of her soul and I’m fairly certain if she did plan on killing herself, she would have had it with her. Also being such a valuable piece, I’m sure if a criminal saw a vulnerable young woman walking down the street in the dead of night, they would also see an opportunity.”

His words made Zhao Yunlan pause. When he still worked at the DCPD, he did plenty of interrogations. Most criminals were so nervous they were practically wetting their pants, but others were as calm as Shen Wei in front of him. He was not accusing the professor of anything yet. However, the darkness hiding behind the man’s dark brown eyes suggested he knew more than he was letting on to. In any case, his detective senses were alive and alert.

“So you are asking me to find the necklace and bring in the people you believe murdered her?”

Shen Wei shook his head. “I am asking you to assist me in my own investigation.”

Zhao Yunlan sucked in a breath. “Ah, with all due respect, professor. I do not assist. I catch criminals with the assistance of others. Plus, this is really not a job for academics such as yourself.

The professor eyed him and reached into his suit. Zhao Yunlan’s eyes bugged when a large stack of cash made an appearance. He hastily began counting the bills all while Shen Wei watched him intently. “Is this enough?”

Humming, Zhao Yunlan moved his head from side-to-side. “I might need something else.”

“Name your price.”

Zhao Yunlan grinned. “Smile for me?”

To his pleasure, Shen Wei’s face became a deep shade of red. Zhao Yunlan laughed and waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, I’m kidding! I’ll make you smile on my own eventually.”

Shen Wei’s lips tightened again and he dropped his head. “We shall see.”

Zhao Yunlan’s heart fluttered. “Challenge accepted, my dear professor Shen.” He grabbed his pistol from underneath his desk. He set it on the table next to the cash and smiled widely up at Shen Wei.

“Now, let’s go find that girl’s necklace.”

#weilan #weilan fic #guardian #guardian fic #zhao yunlan #shen wei #film noir au #charlie writes stuff #and then they went on gay ol' adventures and nobody died #also i love my dumb ass cat boy Da Qing so shout out #like i said please know this is totally not proofread or written coherently

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neverplannedonnewsies · 6 years

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A Walk in the Park

Just love Davey, what can I say? I’ll try and branch out to new characters soon guys, but I hope you guys like this slightly self-indulgent fic for now ;)

Davey x reader pairing. No warnings.

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“Y/N! Come downstairs at once, Mr. Inglesworth is at the door!”

You sighed, regretful setting aside your book and accepting your gloves and hat from the maid. Your mother clucked over you, brushing at your dress and worrying that your hair was not tidy enough. You dutifully followed her downstairs where Mr. John Inglesworth was waiting. He had been attempting to court you for several months – attempting because you wanted nothing to do with him. Certainly he was rich, handsome, everything you were supposed to be looking for in a husband, but you just didn’t like him. He had been nothing but courteous to you, but it was just a feeling you had, the way he’d phrase his remarks that had you reluctant to spend time in his company. He was also rather arrogant which did not help.

Your parents, however, were absolutely enamored with him and insisted on pushing you together at every opportunity. Thus today’s outing for a stroll around Central Park.

“Miss Y/L/N, what a delight it is to see you. And if I may say, you are looking particularly radiant today.” You smiled wanly as he bowed over your hand and placed a kiss upon it. Your skin tingled with annoyance and you quickly pulled on your gloves to resist the childish urge to scrub the back of your hand.

With a last goodbye to your mother you took hold of Mr. Inglesworths’ outstretched arm and he swept you out the door. Your residence overlooked Central Park, the close proximity being the reason you had insisted the outing take place there. You figured you could stroll for a little while, and if Mr. Inglesworth persisted in being irritating you could plead a headache and be done with him quickly. He began with his usual chatter, talking about only topics that interested him and bored you to tears, until he briefly mentioned, “I heard tell of a female reporter writing for The Sun. And not just the social pages, but front page stories! It’s a disgrace it is.”

You gritted your teeth in annoyance – that headache might not end up being fake after all.

“I think it’s wonderful,” you said, trying to keep your composure.

“Oh you females would naturally want to stick by one another but surely a woman of your status cannot possibly condone that sort of behavior.” He didn’t seem to actually expect a response to this, which was good because you had been about to say something very rude. You decide the best way to survive this outing would be to say as little as possible – not difficult with the amount of blather coming from Mr. Inglesworth. Just when you thought if you had to hear him speak one more word you would scream, an interruption blissfully came your way.

“Care to buy a pape, sir? Ma’am?” The question came from a nearby newsboy – though boy probably wasn’t the right word as he was a least the same age as you, if not slightly older. He was also rather nicely dressed for a newsie, and cleaner than most of the poor boys you saw running around hawking the headlines. Mr. Inglesworth didn’t seem to notice any of this though and merely snarled, “Not from the likes of you, you street urchin.”

Mr. Inglesworth began pulling you rather roughly away, as though being in proximity to someone from the working class would prove dangerous. The newsboy’s face became carefully blank, but you could see the anger behind his eyes. You dug in your heels and stated loudly, “Actually, Mr. Inglesworth, I would care for a paper. Please be so kind as to wait a moment while I purchase one.”

Mr. Inglesworth frowned, but stiffly said, “Very well.”

You turned to the newsie who now had a mischievous glint in his eyes, and asked, “Any good stories today?”

“Yes ma’am, there was quite the fire down at the docks last night, and there’s also an editorial on Roosevelt’s recent bill proposal.” He was educated too, it seemed.

“What’s your opinion on Roosevelt?” You asked this just to annoy Mr. Inglesworth – he detested Roosevelt, and you suspected this newsie would be in favor of him due to the recent strike.

“Oh he’s a brilliant man. I actually met him when he put his support behind the newsboy strike.”

You raised your eyebrows, impressed – if he had met Roosevelt that meant he was one of the leaders of the strike. You started to ask him more about it when Mr. Inglesworth gave a loud, aggravated sigh and said, “Miss Y/L/N I believe we should continue on – don’t want to deny this chap time to sell his newspapers” and gave a very insincere smile.

Annoyance flared up in you again, however this time you were forced to acknowledge that in this one instance Mr. Inglesworth might be right. You didn’t want to hurt the young man’s chances of selling all his papers. So you bid the newsie farewell with a smile, tucked your newspaper under your arm, and continued on with Mr. Inglesworth.

Spirits buoyed by having you to himself again, Mr. Inglesworth continued with his relentless chatter, and you tuned him out by thinking about the handsome newsie with the strong cheekbones and soft hands. You tuned him out so effectively, however, that you were caught completely off-guard when Mr. Inglesworth began sprouting off nonsense about how beautiful you were, how wonderful life would be as his wife, and promptly got down on one knee and asked you to marry him – in a public place!

“Do stand up,” you hissed, cheeks turning red at the sight of people staring. He obliged you in this instance, but kept a firm grip on your hands.

“I know this is a bit unorthodox, but I have already asked your father for his blessing and he has granted it, so I thought it best to get on with things. I’m thinking a spring wedding, though I-“

“Mr. Inglesworth!” you burst out.

“John, please. I believe at this point we can dispense with formalities,” he chuckled in what you were sure he thought was an indulgent manner, but merely came across as condescending.

“Mr. Inglesworth,” you said in a firmer tone, “While I appreciate very much the offer of your hand I am afraid that I must decline. Please accept my sincerest regrets.”

He appeared stunned, “You…decline?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Given that it just happened, I assure you it is.”

“But it is not possible! I am a gentleman of as high a stature as you could hope to marry! Your father has already given his approval, you cannot-”

“I believe the lady said no,” a quiet voice interrupted. “And a gentleman would accept her word.”

You both turned to see the newsie from earlier standing there, looking determinedly at Mr. Inglesworth. He was clearly trying to keep the situation calm, but held his body stiffly as though he was preparing for a confrontation.

Mr. Inglesworth swelled, getting ready to shout and you quickly stepped in, “John, people are staring. If you make a scene this is likely to get into the gossip columns. Please just go.”

Your remark seemed to remind him where he was, and how poorly his image would suffer if the rest of New York’s high society got wind of this. Shouting at a woman would never be viewed positively, no matter what the circumstances. He shot you one more venomous look and strode quickly away.

“Are you all right miss?”

You sighed with relief, “Yes, now that he’s gone. Thank you for stepping in.”

“You had him pretty well handled; I just thought you could use a bit of moral support.” Now that you were alone he had become wonderfully relaxed and seemed almost an entirely different boy than the one moments before.

“Well thank you all the same, Mr…?”

“Jacobs. My name is David Jacobs, but you may call me Davey if you’re comfortable with the ‘informality’.” You grin broadened and you said,

“Very well, Davey. You may call me Y/N if you wish.”

“May I walk you home since your escort so unceremoniously abandoned you?” he bowed and offered his arm, making you laugh and gratefully accept it. You could not help but notice his arm was more well-muscled than Mr. Inglesworth’s had been. This walk in the park certainly had taken a turn for the better.

“So tell me, what was Roosevelt really like?”

“Oh he was just as brusque and loud as you read in the papes, really takes charge of a room. My friend Jack is normally so sure of himself but he nearly fell apart after shaking his hand, it was so funny…”

You continued on, listening in interest as he told you about the newsie strike and the rest of his newsie brothers, all too soon ending up back at the doorstep to your family’s townhouse.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Davey. And thank you again.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Miss Y/N” Davey said as he bowed over your hand, placing a soft kiss on it and looked up at you with a slightly goofy smile which you returned.

“Will you be back in the park selling papers tomorrow?” you asked hopefully.

“Absolutely.”

You watched him walk away, you heart doing an extra little thump when he turned to look back at you as he walked down the street. Your hand still tingled when you turned to go inside, but this time it was a wonderful feeling.

#davey jacobs fanfiction #davey jacobs fan fiction #newsies fanfiction #newsies fan fiction #newsies #david jacobs #davey #davey x reader #david jacobs x reader #mine #davey jacobs x reader #a walk in the park #fan fiction #fanfiction #i just love davey #i want a davey #jack kelly

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readbookywooks · 7 years

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The Honest Tradesman

To the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool in Fleet-street with his grisly urchin beside him, a vast number and variety of objects in movement were every day presented. Who could sit upon anything in Fleet-street during the busy hours of the day, and not be dazed and deafened by two immense processions, one ever tending westward with the sun, the other ever tending eastward from the sun, both ever tending to the plains beyond the range of red and purple where the sun goes down! With his straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher sat watching the two streams, like the heathen rustic who has for several centuries been on duty watching one stream - saving that Jerry had no expectation of their ever running dry. Nor would it have been an expectation of a hopeful kind, since a small part of his income was derived from the pilotage of timid women (mostly of a full habit and past the middle term of life) from Tellson's side of the tides to the opposite shore. Brief as such companionship was in every separate instance, Mr. Cruncher never failed to become so interested in the lady as to express a strong desire to have the honour of drinking her very good health. And it was from the gifts bestowed upon him towards the execution of this benevolent purpose, that he recruited his finances, as just now observed. Time was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, and mused in the sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on a stool in a public place, but not being a poet, mused as little as possible, and looked about him. It fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when crowds were few, and belated women few, and when his affairs in general were so unprosperous as to awaken a strong suspicion in his breast that Mrs. Cruncher must have been "flopping" in some pointed manner, when an unusual concourse pouring down Fleet-street westward, attracted his attention. Looking that way, Mr. Cruncher made out that some kind of funeral was coming along, and that there was popular objection to this funeral, which engendered uproar. "Young Jerry," said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring, "it's a buryin'." "Hooroar, father!" cried Young Jerry. The young gentleman uttered this exultant sound with mysterious significance. The elder gentleman took the cry so ill, that he watched his opportunity, and smote the young gentleman on the ear. "What d'ye mean? What are you hooroaring at? What do you want to conwey to your own father, you young Rip? This boy is a getting too many for ME!" said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. "Him and his hooroars! Don't let me hear no more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D'ye hear?" "I warn't doing no harm," Young Jerry protested, rubbing his cheek. "Drop it then," said Mr. Cruncher; "I won't have none of YOUR no harms. Get a top of that there seat, and look at the crowd." His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawling and hissing round a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, in which mourning coach there was only one mourner, dressed in the dingy trappings that were considered essential to the dignity of the position. The position appeared by no means to please him, however, with an increasing rabble surrounding the coach, deriding him, making grimaces at him, and incessantly groaning and calling out: "Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!" with many compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat. Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr. Cruncher; he always pricked up his senses, and became excited, when a funeral passed Tellson's. Naturally, therefore, a funeral with this uncommon attendance excited him greatly, and he asked of the first man who ran against him: "What is it, brother? What's it about?" "_I_ don't know," said the man. "Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!" He asked another man. "Who is it?" "_I_ don't know," returned the man, clapping his hands to his mouth nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and with the greatest ardour, "Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi - ies!" At length, a person better informed on the merits of the case, tumbled against him, and from this person he learned that the funeral was the funeral of one Roger Cly. "Was He a spy?" asked Mr. Cruncher. "Old Bailey spy," returned his informant. "Yaha! Tst! Yah! Old Bailey Spi - i - ies!" "Why, to be sure!" exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which he had assisted. "I've seen him. Dead, is he?" "Dead as mutton," returned the other, "and can't be too dead. Have 'em out, there! Spies! Pull 'em out, there! Spies!" The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of any idea, that the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and loudly repeating the suggestion to have 'em out, and to pull 'em out, mobbed the two vehicles so closely that they came to a stop. On the crowd's opening the coach doors, the one mourner scuffled out of himself and was in their hands for a moment; but he was so alert, and made such good use of his time, that in another moment he was scouring away up a bye-street, after shedding his cloak, hat, long hatband, white pocket-handkerchief, and other symbolical tears. These, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and wide with great enjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut up their shops; for a crowd in those times stopped at nothing, and was a monster much dreaded. They had already got the length of opening the hearse to take the coffin out, when some brighter genius proposed instead, its being escorted to its destination amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions being much needed, this suggestion, too, was received with acclamation, and the coach was immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen out, while as many people got on the roof of the hearse as could by any exercise of ingenuity stick upon it. Among the first of these volunteers was Jerry Cruncher himself, who modestly concealed his spiky head from the observation of Tellson's, in the further corner of the mourning coach. The officiating undertakers made some protest against these changes in the ceremonies; but, the river being alarmingly near, and several voices remarking on the efficacy of cold immersion in bringing refractory members of the profession to reason, the protest was faint and brief. The remodelled procession started, with a chimney-sweep driving the hearse - advised by the regular driver, who was perched beside him, under close inspection, for the purpose - and with a pieman, also attended by his cabinet minister, driving the mourning coach. A bear-leader, a popular street character of the time, was impressed as an additional ornament, before the cavalcade had gone far down the Strand; and his bear, who was black and very mangy, gave quite an Undertaking air to that part of the procession in which he walked. Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and infinite caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went its way, recruiting at every step, and all the shops shutting up before it. Its destination was the old church of Saint Pancras, far off in the fields. It got there in course of time; insisted on pouring into the burial-ground; finally, accomplished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own way, and highly to its own satisfaction. The dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under the necessity of providing some other entertainment for itself, another brighter genius (or perhaps the same) conceived the humour of impeaching casual passers-by, as Old Bailey spies, and wreaking vengeance on them. Chase was given to some scores of inoffensive persons who had never been near the Old Bailey in their lives, in the realisation of this fancy, and they were roughly hustled and maltreated. The transition to the sport of window-breaking, and thence to the plundering of public-houses, was easy and natural. At last, after several hours, when sundry summer-houses had been pulled down, and some area-railings had been torn up, to arm the more belligerent spirits, a rumour got about that the Guards were coming. Before this rumour, the crowd gradually melted away, and perhaps the Guards came, and perhaps they never came, and this was the usual progress of a mob. Mr. Cruncher did not assist at the closing sports, but had remained behind in the churchyard, to confer and condole with the undertakers. The place had a soothing influence on him. He procured a pipe from a neighbouring public-house, and smoked it, looking in at the railings and maturely considering the spot. "Jerry," said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself in his usual way, "you see that there Cly that day, and you see with your own eyes that he was a young 'un and a straight made 'un." Having smoked his pipe out, and ruminated a little longer, he turned himself about, that he might appear, before the hour of closing, on his station at Tellson's. Whether his meditations on mortality had touched his liver, or whether his general health had been previously at all amiss, or whether he desired to show a little attention to an eminent man, is not so much to the purpose, as that he made a short call upon his medical adviser - a distinguished surgeon - on his way back. Young Jerry relieved his father with dutiful interest, and reported No job in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient clerks came out, the usual watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher and his son went home to tea. "Now, I tell you where it is!" said Mr. Cruncher to his wife, on entering. "If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs goes wrong to-night, I shall make sure that you've been praying again me, and I shall work you for it just the same as if I seen you do it." The dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head. "Why, you're at it afore my face!" said Mr. Cruncher, with signs of angry apprehension. "I am saying nothing." "Well, then; don't meditate nothing. You might as well flop as meditate. You may as well go again me one way as another. Drop it altogether." "Yes, Jerry." "Yes, Jerry," repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to tea. "Ah! It IS yes, Jerry. That's about it. You may say yes, Jerry." Mr. Cruncher had no particular meaning in these sulky corroborations, but made use of them, as people not unfrequently do, to express general ironical dissatisfaction. "You and your yes, Jerry," said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of his bread-and-butter, and seeming to help it down with a large invisible oyster out of his saucer. "Ah! I think so. I believe you." "You are going out to-night?" asked his decent wife, when he took another bite. "Yes, I am." "May I go with you, father?" asked his son, briskly. "No, you mayn't. I'm a going - as your mother knows - a fishing. That's where I'm going to. Going a fishing." "Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty; don't it, father?" "Never you mind." "Shall you bring any fish home, father?" "If I don't, you'll have short commons, to-morrow," returned that gentleman, shaking his head; "that's questions enough for you; I ain't a going out, till you've been long abed." He devoted himself during the remainder of the evening to keeping a most vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and sullenly holding her in conversation that she might be prevented from meditating any petitions to his disadvantage. With this view, he urged his son to hold her in conversation also, and led the unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling on any causes of complaint he could bring against her, rather than he would leave her for a moment to her own reflections. The devoutest person could have rendered no greater homage to the efficacy of an honest prayer than he did in this distrust of his wife. It was as if a professed unbeliever in ghosts should be frightened by a ghost story. "And mind you!" said Mr. Cruncher. "No games to-morrow! If I, as a honest tradesman, succeed in providing a jinte of meat or two, none of your not touching of it, and sticking to bread. If I, as a honest tradesman, am able to provide a little beer, none of your declaring on water. When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be a ugly customer to you, if you don't. _I_'m your Rome, you know." Then he began grumbling again: "With your flying into the face of your own wittles and drink! I don't know how scarce you mayn't make the wittles and drink here, by your flopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. Look at your boy: he IS your'n, ain't he? He's as thin as a lath. Do you call yourself a mother, and not know that a mother's first duty is to blow her boy out?" This touched Young Jerry on a tender place; who adjured his mother to perform her first duty, and, whatever else she did or neglected, above all things to lay especial stress on the discharge of that maternal function so affectingly and delicately indicated by his other parent. Thus the evening wore away with the Cruncher family, until Young Jerry was ordered to bed, and his mother, laid under similar injunctions, obeyed them. Mr. Cruncher beguiled the earlier watches of the night with solitary pipes, and did not start upon his excursion until nearly one o'clock. Towards that small and ghostly hour, he rose up from his chair, took a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cupboard, and brought forth a sack, a crowbar of convenient size, a rope and chain, and other fishing tackle of that nature. Disposing these articles about him in skilful manner, he bestowed a parting defiance on Mrs. Cruncher, extinguished the light, and went out. Young Jerry, who had only made a feint of undressing when he went to bed, was not long after his father. Under cover of the darkness he followed out of the room, followed down the stairs, followed down the court, followed out into the streets. He was in no uneasiness concerning his getting into the house again, for it was full of lodgers, and the door stood ajar all night. Impelled by a laudable ambition to study the art and mystery of his father's honest calling, Young Jerry, keeping as close to house fronts, walls, and doorways, as his eyes were close to one another, held his honoured parent in view. The honoured parent steering Northward, had not gone far, when he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and the two trudged on together. Within half an hour from the first starting, they were beyond the winking lamps, and the more than winking watchmen, and were out upon a lonely road. Another fisherman was picked up here - and that so silently, that if Young Jerry had been superstitious, he might have supposed the second follower of the gentle craft to have, all of a sudden, split himself into two. The three went on, and Young Jerry went on, until the three stopped under a bank overhanging the road. Upon the top of the bank was a low brick wall, surmounted by an iron railing. In the shadow of bank and wall the three turned out of the road, and up a blind lane, of which the wall - there, risen to some eight or ten feet high - formed one side. Crouching down in a corner, peeping up the lane, the next object that Young Jerry saw, was the form of his honoured parent, pretty well defined against a watery and clouded moon, nimbly scaling an iron gate. He was soon over, and then the second fisherman got over, and then the third. They all dropped softly on the ground within the gate, and lay there a little - listening perhaps. Then, they moved away on their hands and knees. It was now Young Jerry's turn to approach the gate: which he did, holding his breath. Crouching down again in a corner there, and looking in, he made out the three fishermen creeping through some rank grass! and all the gravestones in the churchyard - it was a large churchyard that they were in - looking on like ghosts in white, while the church tower itself looked on Eke the ghost of a monstrous giant. They did not creep far, before they stopped and stood upright. And then they began to fish. They fished with a spade, at first. Presently the honoured parent appeared to be adjusting some instrument like a great corkscrew. Whatever tools they worked with, they worked hard, until the awful striking of the church clock so terrified Young Jerry, that he made off, with his hair as stiff as his father's. But, his long-cherished desire to know more about these matters, not only stopped him in his running away, but lured him back again. They were still fishing perseveringly, when he peeped in at the gate for the second time; but, now they seemed to have got a bite. There was a screwing and complaining sound down below, and their bent figures were strained, as if by a weight. By slow degrees the weight broke away the earth upon it, and came to the surface. Young Jerry very well knew what it would be; but, when he saw it, and saw his honoured parent about to wrench it open, he was so frightened, being new to the sight, that he made off again, and never stopped until he had run a mile or more. He would not have stopped then, for anything less necessary than breath, it being a spectral sort of race that he ran, and one highly desirable to get to the end of. He had a strong idea that the coffin he had seen was running after him; and, pictured as hopping on behind him, bolt upright, upon its narrow end, always on the point of overtaking him and hopping on at his side - perhaps taking his arm-it was a pursuer to shun. It was an inconsistent and ubiquitous fiend too, for, while it was making the whole night behind him dreadful, he darted out into the roadway to avoid dark alleys, fearful of its coming hopping out of them like a dropsical boy's-Kite without tail and wings. It hid in doorways too, rubbing its horrible shoulders against doors, and drawing them up to its ears, as if it were laughing. It got into shadows on the road, and lay cunningly on its back to trip him up. All this time it was incessantly hopping on behind and gaining on him, so that when the boy got to his own door he had reason for being half dead. And even then it would not leave him, but followed him upstairs with a bump on every stair, scrambled into bed with him, and bumped down, dead and heavy, on his breast when he fell asleep. >From his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened after daybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the family room. Something had gone wrong with him; at least, so Young Jerry inferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the ears, and knocking the back of her head against the head-board of the bed. "I told you I would," said Mr. Cruncher, "and I did." "Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!" his wife implored. "You oppose yourself to the profit of the business," said Jerry, "and me and my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; why the devil don't you?" "I try to be a good wife, Jerry," the poor woman protested, with tears. "Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband's business? Is it honouring your husband to dishonour his business? Is it obeying your husband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business?" "You hadn't taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry." "It's enough for you," retorted Mr. Cruncher, "to be the wife of a honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations when he took to his trade or when he didn't. A honouring and obeying wife would let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious woman? If you're a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have no more nat'ral sense of duty than the bed of this here Thames river has of a pile, and similarly it must be knocked into you." The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and terminated in the honest tradesman's kicking off his clay-soiled boots, and lying down at his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on his back, with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay down too, and fell asleep again. There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr. Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an iron pot-lid by him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case he should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed and washed at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his ostensible calling. Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father's side along sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very different Young Jerry from him of the previous night, running home through darkness and solitude from his grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day, and his qualms were gone with the night - in which particulars it is not improbable that he had compeers in Fleet-street and the City of London, that fine morning. "Father," said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to keep at arm's length and to have the stool well between them: "what's a Resurrection-Man?" Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he answered, "How should I know?" "I thought you knowed everything, father," said the artless boy. "Hem! Well," returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, and lifting off his hat to give his spikes free play, "he's a tradesman." "What's his goods, father?" asked the brisk Young Jerry. "His goods," said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in his mind, "is a branch of Scientific goods." "Persons' bodies, ain't it, father?" asked the lively boy. "I believe it is something of that sort," said Mr. Cruncher. "Oh, father, I should so like to be a Resurrection-Man when I'm quite growed up!" Mr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head in a dubious and moral way. "It depends upon how you dewelop your talents. Be careful to dewelop your talents, and never to say no more than you can help to nobody, and there's no telling at the present time what you may not come to be fit for." As Young Jerry, thus encouraged, went on a few yards in advance, to plant the stool in the shadow of the Bar, Mr. Cruncher added to himself: "Jerry, you honest tradesman, there's hopes wot that boy will yet be a blessing to you, and a recompense to you for his mother!"

#TaleofTwoCities

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