The Golden Dustman Sinks Again
The evening of that day being one of the reading evenings at the Bower, Mr. Boffin kissed Mrs. Boffin after a five o’clock dinner, and trotted out, nursing his big stick in both arms, so that, as of old, it seemed to be whispering in his ear. He carried so very attentive an expression on his countenance that it appeared as if the confidential discourse of the big stick required to be followed closely. Mr. Boffin’s face was like the face of a thoughtful listener to an intricate communication, and, in trotting along, he occasionally glanced at that companion with the look of a man who was interposing the remark: “You don’t mean it!”
Mr. Boffin and his stick went on alone together, until they arrived at certain crossways where they would be likely to fall in with anyone coming, at about the same time, from Clerkenwell to the Bower. Here they stopped, and Mr. Boffin consulted his watch.
“It wants five minutes, good, to Venus’s appointment,” said he. “I’m rather early.”
But Venus was a punctual man, and, even as Mr. Boffin replaced his watch in its pocket, was to be descried coming towards him. He quickened his pace on seeing Mr. Boffin already at the place of meeting, and was soon at his side.
“Thank’ee, Venus,” said Mr. Boffin. “Thank’ee, thank’ee, thank’ee!”
It would not have been very evident why he thanked the anatomist, but for his furnishing the explanation in what he went on to say.