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The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and

terminated in the honest tradesman's kicking off his clay-soiled

boots, and lying down at his length on the floor. After taking a

timid peep at him lying on his back, with his rusty hands under

his head for a pillow, his son lay down too, and fell asleep

again.

There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else.

Mr. Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an

iron pot-lid by him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs.

Cruncher, in case he should observe any symptoms of her saying

Grace. He was brushed and washed at the usual hour, and set off

with his son to pursue his ostensible calling.