'
'Oh! He's worse than ever, you know!' cried Jonas, quite disgusted.
'Upon my soul, father, he's getting too bad. Hold your tongue, will
you?'
'He says you're wrong!' cried Anthony to the old clerk.
'Tut, tut!' was Chuffey's answer. 'I know better. I say HE'S wrong.
I say HE'S wrong. He's a boy. That's what he is. So are you, Mr
Chuzzlewit--a kind of boy. Ha! ha! ha! You're quite a boy to many I have
known; you're a boy to me; you're a boy to hundreds of us. Don't mind
him!'
With which extraordinary speech--for in the case of Chuffey this was a
burst of eloquence without a parallel--the poor old shadow drew through
his palsied arm his master's hand, and held it there, with his own
folded upon it, as if he would defend him.
'I grow deafer every day, Chuff,' said Anthony, with as much softness of
manner, or, to describe it more correctly, with as little hardness as he
was capable of expressing.
'No, no,' cried Chuffey. 'No, you don't. What if you did? I've been deaf
this twenty year.'
'I grow blinder, too,' said the old man, shaking his head.
'That's a good sign!' cried Chuffey.
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