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'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.
Whether the brass armour checked the natural flow of perspiration, and thus prevented the spirit from evaporating, we are not scientific enough to know; but, whatever the cause was, Mr. Twigger no sooner found himself outside the gate of Mudfog Hall, than he also found himself in a very considerable state of intoxication; and hence his extraordinary style of progressing.
So, Mrs. Twigger had plenty of time to denounce Nicholas Tulrumble to his face: to express her opinion that he was a decided monster; and to intimate that, if her ill-used husband sustained any personal damage from the brass armour, she would have the law of Nicholas Tulrumble for manslaughter.
Nicholas Tulrumble was seated in a small cavern with a skylight, which he called his library, sketching out a plan of the procession on a large sheet of paper; and into the cavern the secretary ushered Ned Twigger. ‘Well, Twigger!’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, condescendingly.
'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 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.
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.
There was a time when Twigger would have replied, ‘Well, Nick!’ but that was in the days of the truck, and a couple of years before the 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.’
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.
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.
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