Page 1085 - bleak-house

says Mr. Bucket in a confidential voice. ‘I am Inspector Buck-
et of the Detective, I am; and this,’ producing the tip of his
convenient little staff from his breast-pocket, ‘is my author-
ity. Now, you wanted to see Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet.
Well! You do see him, and mind you, it ain’t every one as
is admitted to that honour. Your name, old gentleman, is
Smallweed; that’s what your name is; I know it well.’
‘Well, and you never heard any harm of it!’ cries Mr.
Smallweed in a shrill loud voice.
‘You don’t happen to know why they killed the pig, do
you?’ retorts Mr. Bucket with a steadfast look, but without
loss of temper.
‘No!’
‘Why, they killed him,’ says Mr. Bucket, ‘on account of
his having so much cheek. Don’t YOU get into the same po-
sition, because it isn’t worthy of you. You ain’t in the habit
of conversing with a deaf person, are you?’
‘Yes,’ snarls Mr. Smallweed, ‘my wife’s deaf.’
‘That accounts for your pitching your voice so high. But
as she ain’t here; just pitch it an octave or two lower, will
you, and I’ll not only be obliged to you, but it’ll do you more
credit,’ says Mr. Bucket. ‘This other gentleman is in the
preaching line, I think?’
‘Name of Chadband,’ Mr. Smallweed puts in, speaking
henceforth in a much lower key.
‘Once had a friend and brother serjeant of the same
name,’ says Mr. Bucket, offering his hand, ‘and consequent-
ly feel a liking for it. Mrs. Chadband, no doubt?’
‘And Mrs. Snagsby,’ Mr. Smallweed introduces.

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