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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 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?’
This was bad enough, but, as if fate and fortune had conspired against Nicholas Tulrumble, Mr. Twigger, not having been penitent for a good calendar month, took it into his head to be most especially and particularly sentimental, just when his repentance could have been most conveniently dispensed with.
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.
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.
At last Ned Twigger was loudly called for, by the procession people: and, having had his helmet fixed on, in a very complicated manner, by the companionable footman, and the kind housemaid, and the friendly cook, he walked gravely forth, and appeared before the multitude. The crowd roared—it was not with wonder, it was not with surprise; it was most decidedly and unquestionably with laughter.
Immense tears were rolling down his cheeks, and he was vainly endeavouring to conceal his grief by applying to his eyes a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief with white spots,—an article not strictly in keeping with a suit of armour some three hundred years old, or thereabouts. ‘Twigger, you villain!’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, quite forgetting his dignity, ‘go back.’
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.
Twigger tried to undo the armour, first in one place, and then in another, but she couldn't manage it; so she tumbled Ned into bed, helmet, armour, gauntlets, and all. Such a creaking as the bedstead made, under Ned's weight in his new suit!
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.
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