Mr. Bumble had re-counted the teaspoons, re-weighed the sugar-tongs, made a closer inspection of the milk-pot, and ascertained to a nicety the exact condition of the furniture, down to the very horse-hair seats of the chairs; and had repeated each process full half a dozen times; before he began to think that it was time for Mrs. Corney to return. Thinking begets thinking; as there were no sounds of Mrs. Corney’s approach, it occured to Mr. Bumble that it would be an innocent and virtuous way of spending the time, if he were further to allay his curiousity by a cursory glance at the interior of Mrs. Corney’s chest of drawers. Having listened at the keyhole, to assure himself that nobody was approaching the chamber, Mr. Bumble, beginning at the bottom, proceeded to make himself acquainted with the contents of the three long drawers: which, being filled with various garments of good fashion and texture, carefully preserved between two layers of old newspapers, speckled with dried lavender: seemed to yield him exceeding satisfaction. Arriving, in course of time, at the right-hand corner drawer (in which was the key), and beholding therein a small padlocked box, which, being shaken, gave forth a pleasant sound, as of the chinking of coin, Mr. Bumble returned with a stately walk to the fireplace; and, resuming his old attitude, said, with a grave and determined air, ‘I’ll do it!’ He followed up this remarkable declaration, by shaking his head in a waggish manner for ten minutes, as though he were remonstrating with himself for being such a pleasant dog; and then, he took a view of his legs in profile, with much seeming pleasure and interest. He was still placidly engaged in this latter survey, when Mrs. Corney, hurrying into the room, threw herself, in a breathless state, on a chair by the fireside, and covering her eyes with one hand, placed the other over her heart, and gasped for breath. ‘Mrs. Corney,’ said Mr. Bumble, stooping over the matron, ‘what is this, ma’am? Has anything happened, ma’am? Pray answer me: I’m on--on--’ Mr. Bumble, in his alarm, could not immediately think of the word ‘tenterhooks,’ so he said ‘broken bottles.’ ‘Oh, Mr. Bumble!’ cried the lady, ‘I have been so dreadfully put out!’ ‘Put out, ma’am!’ exclaimed Mr. Bumble; ‘who has dared to--? I know!’ said Mr. Bumble, checking himself, with native majesty, ‘this is them wicious paupers!’ ‘It’s dreadful to think of!’ said the lady, shuddering. ‘Then _don’t_ think of it, ma’am,’ rejoined Mr. Bumble. ‘I can’t help it,’ whimpered the lady. ‘Then take something, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bumble soothingly. ‘A little of the wine?’