the act of conveying Alexander Mac Stinger, aged two years and three months, along the passage, for forcible deposition in a sitting posture on the street pavement: Alexander being black in the face with holding his breath after punishment, and a cool paving-stone being usually found to act as a powerful restorative in such cases.
The feelings of Mrs. Mac Stinger, as a woman and a mother, were outraged by the look of pity for Alexander which she observed on Florence’s face. Therefore, Mrs. Mac Stinger asserting those finest emotions of our nature, in preference to weakly gratifying her curiosity, shook and buffeted Alexander both before and during the application of the paving-stone, and took no further notice of the strangers.
"I beg your pardon, Ma’am," said Florence, when the child had found his breath again, and was using it. "Is this Captain Cuttle’s house?"
"No," said Mrs. Mac Stinger.
"Not Number Nine?" asked Florence, hesitating.
"Who said it wasn’t Number Nine?" said Mrs. Mac Stinger.
Susan Nipper instantly struck in, and begged to inquire what Mrs. Mac Stinger meant by that, and if she knew whom she was talking to.
Mrs. Mac Stinger in retort, looked at her all over. "What do you want with Captain Cuttle, I should wish to know?" said Mrs. Mac Stinger.
"Should you? Then I’m sorry that you won’t be satisfied," returned Miss Nipper.
"Hush, Susan! If you please!" said Florence. "Perhaps you can have the goodness to tell us where Captain Cuttle lives, Ma’am as he don’t live here."
"Who says he don’t live here?" retorted the implacable Mac Stinger. "I said it wasn’t Cap’en Cuttle’s house—and it a'nt his house—and forbid it, that it ever should be his house—for Cap’en Cuttle don’t know how to keep a house—and don’t deserve to have a house—it’s my house—and when I let the upper floor to Cap’en Cuttle, oh I do a thankless thing, and cast pearls before swine!"
Mrs. Mac Stinger pitched her voice for the upper windows in offering these remarks, and cracked off each clause sharply by itself as if from a rifle possessing an infinity of barrels. After the last shot, the Captain’s voice was heard to say, in feeble remonstrance from his own room, "Steady below!"
"Since you want Cap’en Cuttle, there he is!" said Mrs. Mac Stinger, with an angry motion of her hand. On Florence making bold to enter, without any more parley, and on Susan following, Mrs. Mac Stinger recommenced her pedestrian exercise in pattens, and Alexander Mac Stinger (still on the paving-stone), who had stopped in his crying to attend to the conversation, began to wail again, entertaining himself during that dismal performance, which was quite mechanical, with a general survey of the prospect, terminating in the hackney-coach.
The Captain in his own apartment was sitting with his hands in his pockets and his legs drawn up under his chair, on a very small desolate island, lying about midway in an ocean of soap and water. The Captain’s windows had been cleaned, the walls had been cleaned, the
