So desolate was Trotty, and so mournful for the youth and promise of his blighted child, that it was a sorrow to him, even to have no place in Mrs. Chickenstalker's ledger. "What sort of a night is it, Anne?" inquired the former porter of Sir Joseph Bowley, stretching out his legs before the fire, and rubbing as much of them as his short arms could reach; with an air that added, "Here I am if it's bad, and I don't want to go out if it's good." "Hard weather indeed," returned his wife, shaking her head. "Ay, ay! Years," said Mr. Tugby, "are like Christians in that respect. Some of 'em die hard; some of 'em die easy. This one hasn't many days to run, and is making a fight for it. I like him all the better. There's a customer, my love!" Attentive to the rattling door, Mrs. Tugby had already risen. "Now, then!" said that lady, passing out into the little shop. "What's wanted? Oh! I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure. I didn't think it was you." She made this apology to a gentleman in black, who, with his wristbands tucked up, and his hat cocked loungingly on one side, and his hand in his pocket, sat down astride on the table-beer barrel, and nodded in return. "This is a bad business up-stairs, Mrs. Tugby," said the gentleman. "The man can't live." "Not the back-attic can't!" cried Tugby, coming out into the shop to join the conference. "The back-attic, Mr. Tugby," said the gentleman, "is coming down-stairs fast, and will be below the basement very soon." Looking by turns at Tugby and his wife, he sounded the barrel with his knuckles for the depth of beer, and having found it, played a tune upon the empty part. "The back-attic, Mr. Tugby," said the gentleman: Tugby having stood in silent consternation for some time; "is Going." "Then," said Tugby, turning to his wife, "he must Go, you know, before he's Gone." "I don't think you can move him," said the gentleman, shaking his head. "I wouldn't take the responsibility of saying it could be done, myself. You had better leave him where he is. He can't live long." "It's the only subject," said Tugby, bringing the butter-scale down upon the counter with a crash, by weighing his fist on it, "that we've ever had a word upon; she and me; and look what it comes to! He's going to die here, after all. Going to die upon the premises. Going to die in our house!" "And where should he have died, Tugby?" cried his wife. "In the workhouse," he returned. "What are workhouses made for?"