Mudfog and Other Sketches | Page 5

donkey; so, he only bowed.
'I want you to go into training, Twigger,' said Mr. Tulrumble.
'What for, sir?' inquired Ned, with a stare.
'Hush, hush, Twigger!' said the Mayor. 'Shut the door, Mr. Jennings.
Look here, Twigger.'
As the Mayor said this, he unlocked a high closet, and disclosed a

complete suit of brass armour, of gigantic dimensions.
'I want you to wear this next Monday, Twigger,' said the Mayor.
'Bless your heart and soul, sir!' replied Ned, 'you might as well ask me
to wear a seventy-four pounder, or a cast-iron boiler.'
'Nonsense, Twigger, nonsense!' said the Mayor.
'I couldn't stand under it, sir,' said Twigger; 'it would make mashed
potatoes of me, if I attempted it.'
'Pooh, pooh, Twigger!' returned the Mayor. 'I tell you I have seen it
done with my own eyes, in London, and the man wasn't half such a
man as you are, either.'
'I should as soon have thought of a man's wearing the case of an
eight-day clock to save his linen,' said Twigger, casting a look of
apprehension at the brass suit.
'It's the easiest thing in the world,' rejoined the Mayor.
'It's nothing,' said Mr. Jennings.
'When you're used to it,' added Ned.
'You do it by degrees,' said the Mayor. 'You would begin with one
piece to-morrow, and two the next day, and so on, till you had got it all
on. Mr. Jennings, give Twigger a glass of rum. Just try the breast-plate,
Twigger. Stay; take another glass of rum first. Help me to lift it, Mr.
Jennings. Stand firm, Twigger! There!--it isn't half as heavy as it looks,
is it?'
Twigger was a good strong, stout fellow; so, after a great deal of
staggering, he managed to keep himself up, under the breastplate, and
even contrived, with the aid of another glass of rum, to walk about in it,
and the gauntlets into the bargain. He made a trial of the helmet, but
was not equally successful, inasmuch as he tipped over instantly,--an
accident which Mr. Tulrumble clearly demonstrated to be occasioned
by his not having a counteracting weight of brass on his legs.
'Now, wear that with grace and propriety on Monday next,' said
Tulrumble, 'and I'll make your fortune.'
'I'll try what I can do, sir,' said Twigger.
'It must be kept a profound secret,' said Tulrumble.
'Of course, sir,' replied Twigger.
'And you must be sober,' said Tulrumble; 'perfectly sober.' Mr. Twigger
at once solemnly pledged himself to be as sober as a judge, and
Nicholas Tulrumble was satisfied, although, had we been Nicholas, we

should certainly have exacted some promise of a more specific nature;
inasmuch as, having attended the Mudfog assizes in the evening more
than once, we can solemnly testify to having seen judges with very
strong symptoms of dinner under their wigs. However, that's neither
here nor there.
The next day, and the day following, and the day after that, Ned
Twigger was securely locked up in the small cavern with the sky- light,
hard at work at the armour. With every additional piece he could
manage to stand upright in, he had an additional glass of rum; and at
last, after many partial suffocations, he contrived to get on the whole
suit, and to stagger up and down the room in it, like an intoxicated
effigy from Westminster Abbey.
Never was man so delighted as Nicholas Tulrumble; never was woman
so charmed as Nicholas Tulrumble's wife. Here was a sight for the
common people of Mudfog! A live man in brass armour! Why, they
would go wild with wonder!
The day--THE Monday--arrived.
If the morning had been made to order, it couldn't have been better
adapted to the purpose. They never showed a better fog in London on
Lord Mayor's day, than enwrapped the town of Mudfog on that eventful
occasion. It had risen slowly and surely from the green and stagnant
water with the first light of morning, until it reached a little above the
lamp-post tops; and there it had stopped, with a sleepy, sluggish
obstinacy, which bade defiance to the sun, who had got up very
blood-shot about the eyes, as if he had been at a drinking-party
over-night, and was doing his day's work with the worst possible grace.
The thick damp mist hung over the town like a huge gauze curtain. All
was dim and dismal. The church steeples had bidden a temporary adieu
to the world below; and every object of lesser importance--houses,
barns, hedges, trees, and barges--had all taken the veil.
The church-clock struck one. A cracked trumpet from the front garden
of Mudfog Hall produced a feeble flourish, as if some asthmatic person
had coughed into it accidentally; the gate flew open, and out came a
gentleman, on a moist-sugar coloured charger,