“Pick up the man’s stick, you brute! You knocked it out of his hand, and you stand staring as if you liked to see how helpless he is.—You observe, John, his right arm is quite useless. Give him another shilling.” Hunt wished he had abstained from his practical hint. Before he could state his case, a woman got the officer’s ear.—Sarah Simpson, spinster, by name and title. She was a clean, tight little body, poorly dressed, and sickly in appearance. She appeared excessively nervous, her eyes rolling and her head twitching incessantly. She pleaded for more pay, saying that she had a note from one of the guardians respecting it: but for this note her trembling hands searched in vain, while she was pushed about by the people who still continued to fill the room. “Make haste, good woman,” said the officer. “We can’t wait on you all day.” At this moment, the poor creature turned round and swore a tremendous oath at a man who had taken upon him to hurry her. “Upon my word, that is pretty well for a spinster!” observed the officer. “If you are not satisfied with your pay, madam, I would recommend your going into the workhouse. You have nobody dependent on you, I believe, and I should think the workhouse a very proper place for you.” “She has been there already,” said the assistant. “Her tongue put me in mind of that. The master tells me such oaths were never heard within the walls as this woman’s.” “Mercy, gentlemen, what did I say?” asked the poor creature, whose eyes now rolled frightfully. “I am not myself at times, gentlemen, when I’m hurried, gentlemen. I have such a—such a—such a strife and strangling here,” she continued fretfully, tearing open her gown, and shaking herself like a passionate child. “Well, well, that’s enough of your symptoms; we are not your doctors,” said the assistant; “take your money and make way.” In a hurried manner she closed her gown and drew back, forgetting her money, which however Hunt put into her hand. “Only two shillings!” exclaimed the poor creature, returning timidly to the counter. “A’n’t I to have what the gentleman recommended, then, sir?” “You are to have no more money, so let us have no more words,” said the officer. “You have your full share already.” Mrs. Bell, whose period of waiting seemed coming to an end, advanced to say that Sarah Simpson was subject to flights at times, when she did not know what words came out of her mouth; but that she was a humble, pious Christian as could be. “I am afraid your recommendation is not worth much,” observed the officer. “Let us see.—Your husband, yourself, and how many children?” Mrs. Bell, suspecting herself suspected, hesitated whether to say four or five. She shaped her answer dubiously,— “Four and sixpence a week is what we have had, sir.” “How many children?” thundered the officer.