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Mrs Snagsby Sees It All
here is disquietude in Cook’s Court； Cursitor Street。 Black
suspicion hides in that peaceful region。 The mass of
T
Cook’s Courtiers are in their usual state of mind； no better
and no worse； but； Mr Snagsby is changed； and his little woman
knows it。
For； Tom…all…Alone’s and Lincoln’s Inn Fields persist in
harnessing themselves； a pair of ungovernable coursers； to the
chariot of Mr Snagsby’s imagination； and Mr Bucket drives； and
the passengers are Jo and Mr Tulkinghorn； and the complete
equipage whirls through the Law Stationery business at wild
speed； all round the clock。 Even in the little front kitchen where
the family meals are taken； it rattles away at a smoking pace from
the dinner table； when Mr Snagsby pauses in carving the first slice
of the leg of mutton baked with potatoes； and stares at the kitchen
wall。
Mr Snagsby can not make out what it is that he has had to do
with。 Something is wrong； somewhere； but what something； what
may come of it； to whom； when； and from which unthought…of and
unheard…of quarter； is the puzzle of his life。 His remote
impressions of the robes and coronets； the stars and garters； that
sparkle through the surface…dust of Mr Tulkinghorn’s chambers；
his veneration for the mysteries presided over by that best and
closest of his customers； whom all the Inns of Court； and Chancery
Lane； and all the legal neighbourhood agree to hold in awe； his
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remembrance of Detective Mr Bucket with his forefinger； and his
confidential manner impossible to be evaded or declined；
persuade him that he is a party to some dangerous secret； without
knowing what it is。 And it is the fearful peculiarity of this
condition； that； at any hour of his daily life； at any opening of the
shop…door； at any pull of the bell； at any entrance of a messenger；
or any delivery of a letter； the secret may take air and fire；
explode； and blow up—Mr Bucket only knows whom。
For which reason； whenever a man unknown comes into the
shop （as many men unknown do）； and says； “Is Mr Snagsby in？”
or words to that innocent effect； Mr Snagsby’s heart knocks hard
at his guilty breast。 He undergoes so much from such inquiries；
that when they are made by boys he revenges himself by flipping
at their ears over the counter； and asking the young dogs what
they meant by it； and why they can’t speak out at once？ More
impracticable men and boys persist in walking into Mr Snagsby’s
sleep； and terrifying him with unaccountable questions； so that
often； when the cock at the little dairy in Cursitor Street breaks
out in his usual absurd way about the morning； Mr Snagsby finds
himself in a crisis of nightmare； with his little woman shaking him；
and saying； “What’s the matter with the man！”
The little woman herself is not the least item in his difficulty。 To
know that he is always keeping a secret from her； that he has；
under all circumstances； to conceal and hold fast a tender double
tooth； which her sharpness is ever ready to twist out of his head；
gives Mr Snagsby； in her dentistical presence； much of the air of a
dog who has a reservation from his master； and will look anywhere
rather than meet his eye。
These various signs and tokens； marked by the little woman；
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are not lost upon her。 They impel her to say； “Snagsby has
something on his mind！” And thus suspicion gets into Cook’s
Court； Cursitor Street。 From suspicion to jealousy； Mrs Snagsby
finds the road as natural and short as from Cook’s Court to
Chancery Lane。 And thus jealousy gets into Cook’s Court； Cursitor
Street。 Once there （and it was always lurking thereabout）； it is
very active and nimble in Mrs Snagsby’s breast—prompting her to
nocturnal examinations of Mr Snagsby’s pockets； to secret
perusals of Mr Snagsby’s letters； to private researches in the Day
Book and Ledger； till； cash…box； and iron safe； to watchings at
windows； listenings behind doors； and a general putting of this
and that together by the wrong end。
Mrs Snagsby is so perpetually on the alert； that the house
becomes ghostly with creaking boards and rustling garments。 The
’prentices think somebody may have been murdered there； in
bygone times。 Guster holds certain loose atoms of an idea （picked
up at Tooting； where they were found floating among the
orphans）； that there is buried money underneath the cellar；
guarded by an old man with a white beard； who cannot get out for
seven thousand years； because he said the Lord’s Prayer
backwards。
“Who was Nimrod？” Mrs Snagsby repeatedly inquires of
herself。 “Who was that lady—that creature？ And who is that boy？”
Now； Nimrod being as dead as the mighty hunter whose name Mrs
Snagsby has appropriated； and the lady being unproducible； she
directs her mental eye； for the present； with redoubled vigilance；
to the boy。 “And who；” quoth Mrs Snagsby； for the thousand and
first time； “is that boy？ Who is that —！” And there Mrs Snagsby is
seized with an inspiration。
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He has no respect for Mr Chadband。 No； to be sure； and he
wouldn’t have； of course。 Naturally he wouldn’t under those
contagious circumstances。 He was invited and appointed by Mr
Chadband—why； Mrs Snagsby heard it herself with her own
ears！—to come back； and be told where he was to go； to be
addressed by Mr Chadband； and he never came！ Why did he never
come？ Because he was told not to come。 Who told him not to
come？ Who？ Ha； ha！ Mrs Snagsby sees it all。
But happily （and Mrs Snagsby tightly shakes her head and
tightly smiles）； that boy was met by Mr Chadband yesterday in the
streets； and that boy； as affording a subject which Mr Chadband
desires to improve for the spiritual delight of a select
congregation； was seized by Mr Chadband and threatened with
being delivered over to the police； unless he showed the reverend
gentleman where he lived； and unless he entered into； and
fulfilled； an undertaking to appear in Cook’s Court tomorrow
night—“to…mor…row…night；” Mrs Snagsby repeats for mere
emphasis； with another tight smile； and another tight shake of her
head； and tomorrow night that boy wil