Having gained the safety of his rooms, Mr Headstone was most anxious to preclude any unwanted interruptions from Mrs Raddle whilst he examined the collection of lock boxes that he had carried all the way from Threadneedle Street; and with this purpose in mind he piled against the door an elbow chair, an old mattress, a coal scuttle, a stuffed owl, a fire dog, and a quantity of oyster shells wrapped up in newspaper. Satisfied that this redoubt was proof against any intrusion from the enemy, the pedagogue turned his attention to the contents of the sack, and laid out on the table five rusty boxes. He took up each one in turn and - like a midwife reviving a somnolent infant - gave it a sustained and vigorous shake so that - like an agitated infant - it made a noise. The sounds (the chink of coin, the rustle of paper, the clatter of precious stones) were enough to excite the pedagogue's curiosity to such a pitch that he had to restrain himself from immediately taking up the poker and smashing the padlocks. What stayed his hand was the legend engraved on a small brass plate on the lid of each box - Property of Arthur Gride Esq - and beneath it an address in Golden Square.
Before his very eyes, Mr Headstone had the means of returning the lock boxes and their precious contents to their rightful owner. For all right thinking men there could be only one course of action, and yet the pedagogue hesitated. Whenever a man is called upon to wrestle with his conscience, he would do well to remember the accepted rules of combat in that noble and ancient sport; for conscience, possessing a delicate constitution, will never resort to kicking or gouging. Mr Headstone knew the stratagems well and, being of a more robust nature, was not averse to using them; and so it was not long before he had pinned his adversary to the ground, and was reaching out for the fire iron.
Mr Charles Dickens
