'Three score and ten,' said Chuffey, 'ought and carry seven. Some men
are so strong that they live to four score--four times ought's an ought,
four times two's an eight--eighty. Oh! why--why--why didn't he live to
four times ought's an ought, and four times two's an eight, eighty?'
'Ah! what a wale of grief!' cried Mrs Gamp, possessing herself of the
bottle and glass.
'Why did he die before his poor old crazy servant?' said Chuffey,
clasping his hands and looking up in anguish. 'Take him from me, and
what remains?'
'Mr Jonas,' returned Pecksniff, 'Mr Jonas, my good friend.'
'I loved him,' cried the old man, weeping. 'He was good to me. We learnt
Tare and Tret together at school. I took him down once, six boys in the
arithmetic class. God forgive me! Had I the heart to take him down!'
'Come, Mr Chuffey,' said Pecksniff. 'Come with me. Summon up your
fortitude, Mr Chuffey.'
'Yes, I will,' returned the old clerk. 'Yes. I'll sum up my forty--How
many times forty--Oh, Chuzzlewit and Son--Your own son Mr Chuzzlewit;
your own son, sir!'
He yielded to the hand that guided him, as he lapsed into this familiar
expression, and submitted to be led away.
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