Two Cities

Chapter 27 The Honest Businessman (1)
Every day, Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on a bench in Fleet Street and getting along with ugly urchins, kept flashing strange scenes before his eyes.Who could avoid being dizzy with the flow of people sitting there in the hustle and bustle of Fleet Street!One stream of people keeps going westward towards the setting sun, the other stream keeps going eastward with its back against the sun, and both streams of people are walking towards the plain outside the mountains covered in purple at sunset!
Mr. Cruncher watched the flow of people with hay in his mouth, like a heathen countryman who has stared at a river for centuries--only he wasn't waiting for the river to dry up.Besides it was a hopeless business, for he earned a fraction of his income navigating timid women (often well-dressed middle-aged women), crossing the river on the Tellson's side of the torrent.Although the time to communicate with each guest was short, Mr. Cruncher always had a soft spot for the lady, and even hoped to be honored with a toast to her health.It is from this public good that his income is rewarded.We have just said this.

There used to be poets who sat on a bench in a public place and contemplated passers-by.Mr. Cruncher sat there too, but he was not a poet, so he just looked around and kept his mind as blank as possible.

When he was doing nothing, there were few pedestrians, few women in a hurry, and the time when business was cold.This led him to guess that Mrs. Cruncher was again "kneeling" insolently.Then a sudden flow of people westward from Fleet Street caught his attention.Mr. Cruncher looked over there. It was a funeral procession, because someone signaled the surroundings to be quiet.

"Little Jerry," said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his boy, "is burying people."

"Whoa, Daddy!" exclaimed Jerry Jerry.The young master's elated scream was also out of curiosity.

But the master was very angry and seized the opportunity to slap him across the face. "What do you mean? Whoa what? What are you trying to say to your father, little bastard? You boy and your 'whoa' are unbearable!" said Mr. Cruncher, looking at him. "Don't let me hear your yelling again, or you will suffer, do you hear me?"

"I didn't do anything wrong," muttered Jerry Jerry, rubbing his cheek.

"Come on," said Mr. Cruncher, "I don't care if you've done any harm. Sit in your seat and watch the action."

His son fell silent, and the crowd came.They were talking and shouting at a hearse and a dirty funeral car.There was only one mourner in the funeral car, in a grubby outfit that fit the theme.But he seemed dissatisfied with his situation.There were more and more people round the carriage, teasing him, making faces at him, shouting now and then, "Ah! Spy! Tsk-Tut! Ya-ha! Spy!"

The funeral procession was always a magnet for Mr. Cruncher.Whenever a funeral procession passed Tellson, he was always ready to fight and get excited.Therefore, he was certainly very excited to have such a sudden funeral procession.He asked the first person who came running towards him:

"What's that, man, what's the fuss?" "I don't know," said the man. "Spy! Haha! Tsk tsk! Spy!"

He asked another person, "Who?"

"I don't know," the man replied, clapping his hands and yelling with all his might, "Spy! Ya-ha! Tsk-tut! Tsk-tut! Secret-agent!"

At last someone who knew a thing or two met him, and he knew that it was the funeral of a man named Roger Clay.

"A spy?" asked Cruncher.

"Old Baylor's spy," said the insider, "Yah! Tut! Yah! Old Baylor's secret-er-spy!"

"Ah, that's right!" Jerry recalled a trial he had helped with. "I've seen him. Dead, isn't he?"

"Death is certain," replied the other, "there is no chance of survival. Take them out, O spies! Drag them out, O spies!" The people were at a loss, and his suggestion was in line with the public's will, and they rushed to arrest them. He stopped, and repeated loudly, "Get it out, drag it out." The crowd surrounded them, and the two cars had to stop.The crowd opened the doors, and the solitary mourner had to fight his way out.He was caught for a moment, but nimble and good at his chance, and in the blink of an eye he had disappeared down a lonely street, leaving behind his mourning clothes, hat, chinstrap, white handkerchief, and other tokens of sorrow.

People tore up these things from him and threw them on the ground noisily.At this moment, the business hastened to close, because the crowd at that time was out of control and lawless.The crowd was about to open the hearse and drag the coffin out.But a certain elf came up with another idea: it would be better for everyone to have fun and send the thing to its destination.This was the idea that best suited the needs of the moment, and the suggestion was therefore gladly adopted by all.In a blink of an eye, the carriage was already full of people inside and out.People climbed on top of the hearse again.They each did their best to fill the space as much as possible.Among this group of volunteers, Jerry Cruncher was the most active one.He squeezed into the corner of the funeral car, and carefully concealed his caltrop head from Tellson's people.

The undertakers who presided over the funeral objected to this insult to the ceremony, but the fearful river was nearby, and a few voices proposed to use cold immersion therapy for the diehards among the undertakers to wake them up Sober, the resistance can only subside quickly.The reorganized team set off.A chimney sweep drives a hearse—advised by a driver beside him, who himself is closely watched.A pie seller was also driving the funeral car, assisted by his ministers.Not long after the overwhelming crowd entered Hebin Road, a bear-led man was also pulled in to add to the icing on the cake—this kind of person was very popular and popular on the street at that time.And the mangy black bear walked in the team with a somewhat mournful expression.

This chaotic procession marched like this, some drinking beer, some smoking pipes, some singing, and some endlessly performing heart-rending appearances.They went from strength to strength, and all the stores closed their doors when they saw them.The team's destination was St. Pancras on the outskirts of the city.They arrived on time, forced their way into the cemetery, and ended up burying the dead Roger Clay the way they liked, and with great satisfaction.

The funeral is over and the crowd is looking for the next form of entertainment.Another elf (perhaps the one just now) has figured out a way to accuse and retaliate against passers-by as spies of Old Baelor.A score or so of passers-by who had nothing to do with the old Baylor became victims and were chased, ravaged, and abused.Small fights naturally evolved into smashing windows and robbing hotels.A few hours later, several gazebos had been knocked down and several fences were dismantled and used as weapons.At this time, rumors spread that the guards were coming.As soon as this remark came out, the crowd dispersed in all directions.Maybe the guards came, maybe they didn't show up at all.In short, that's what rioting is all about.

Mr Cruncher did not attend the closing ceremony, but remained at the cemetery, chatting with undertakers and expressing his condolences.The graveyard comforted him.He found a pipe from a nearby tavern, smoked, and looked at the cemetery from the fence, thinking hard.

"Jerry," said Mr. Cruncher, talking to himself as usual. "You met this Clay the other day. You saw him with your own eyes. He was still young and strong." He thought for a while after smoking his cigarette, and then turned around. Sen's post.It doesn't matter whether moral thoughts hurt his liver, or his health was always bad, or he wanted to pay homage to a hero, but he visited his health on the way home. Consultant - a distinguished surgeon.

Jerry Jr., who took over his dad's class with all his might and enthusiasm, reported to him that he had nothing to do when he was gone.The bank closed, the elderly clerks came out, and the doorman went to work as usual.Cruncher and his son also went home to tea.

"Well, I'll tell you what the problem is," said Mr. Cruncher to his wife as soon as he entered the room. "As a simple and honest businessman, if my activities tonight do not go well, I will definitely find out that it is your curse again, and then I will repay you by seeing it."

A disheartened Mrs. Cruncher shook her head. "Well, you're still cursing in my presence!" said Mr. Cruncher, with piercing rage. "But I didn't say a word."

"That's good, then don't think about it. If you want to, you can think about it when you kneel, or you can think about it if you don't kneel. If you want to oppose me, you can do this or that, but I will never allow it."

"Yes, Jerry." "Yes, Jerry," repeated Mr. Cruncher, sitting down to his tea. "Ah! The eternal 'yes, Jerry', nothing but 'yes' Jerry!"

Mr. Cruncher's honest complaint meant nothing but self-deprecation--everyone would. "You and your 'yes, Jerry'," said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite of the brioche bread, like swallowing a large invisible oyster, "ah, that's it! I believe you."

"Are you going out tonight?" asked his meek wife.He took another bite of the bread.

"Going out." "Can I go out too, Dad?" His son asked quickly. "No, you can't. I'm going—your mother knows—to fish. To a fishing place, to fish." "Isn't your rod rusty, Dad?" "Young man." No business." "Are you bringing fish home, Daddy?"

(End of this chapter)