cocked hat. Strip the bishop of his apron, or the beadle of his hat and lace; what are they? Men. Mere men. Dignity, and even holiness too, sometimes, are more questions of coat and waistcoat than some people imagine.
Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney, and was master of the workhouse. Another beadle had come into power. On him the cocked hat, gold-laced coat, and staff, had all three descended.
“And tomorrow two months it was done!” said Mr. Bumble, with a sigh. “It seems a age.”
Mr. Bumble might have meant that he had concentrated a whole existence of happiness into the short space of eight weeks; but the sigh—there was a vast deal of meaning in the sigh.
“I sold myself,” said Mr. Bumble, pursuing the same train of reflection, “for six teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a milk-pot; with a small quantity of secondhand furniture, and twenty pound in money. I went very reasonable. Cheap, dirt cheap!”
“Cheap!” cried a shrill voice in Mr. Bumble’s ear: “you would have been dear at any price; and dear enough I paid for you, Lord above knows that!”
Mr. Bumble turned, and encountered the face of his interesting consort, who, imperfectly comprehending the few words she had overheard of his complaint, had hazarded the foregoing remark at a venture.
“ Mrs. Bumble, ma’am!” said Mr. Bumble, with a sentimental sternness.
“Well!” cried the lady.