“I recollect,” said the undertaker. “The jury brought it in, ‘Died from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life,’ didn’t they?”
Mr. Bumble nodded.
“And they made it a special verdict, I think,” said the undertaker, “by adding some words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had—”
“Tush! Foolery!” interposed the beadle. “If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they’d have enough to do.”
“Very true,” said the undertaker; “they would indeed.”
“Juries,” said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into a passion: “juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches.”
“So they are,” said the undertaker.
“They haven’t no more philosophy nor political economy about ’em than that,” said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously.
“No more they have,” acquiesced the undertaker.
“I despise ’em,” said the beadle, growing very red in the face.
“So do I,” rejoined the undertaker.
“And I only wish we’d a jury of the independent sort, in the house for a week or two,” said the beadle; “the rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for ’em.”