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Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father's

side along sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very different

Young Jerry from him of the previous night, running home through

darkness and solitude from his grim pursuer. His cunning was

fresh with the day, and his qualms were gone with the night--in

which particulars it is not improbable that he had compeers in

Fleet-street and the City of London, that fine morning.

"Father," said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to

keep at arm's length and to have the stool well between them:

"what's a Resurrection-Man?"

Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he answered,

"How should I know?"

"I thought you knowed everything, father," said the artless boy.

"Hem! Well," returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, and lifting

off his hat to give his spikes free play, "he's a tradesman."

"What's his goods, father?" asked the brisk Young Jerry.