Beadle's Dime Novels No. 47: Tim Bumble's Charge — page 62: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

60 TIM BUMBLE’S CHARGE. Shrieks and uproar—faintings—frantic flying from place to place—was the order of that terrible hour. The physician was sent for—Frank was summoned—Arty was ill and could not come. The house was a carayansary till the following day. Tim and Bridget had their hands full. Old Mr, Rey- nolds, the uncle, stalked from room to room, uttering disa- greeable adjectives as the cost of this and that elegance occurred to his mind. “ Fool and his money soon parted,” he sneered, tapping the beautiful statue of a Hebe contemptuously with his cane. “Sylvester forgsaw it—smart fellow that Sylvester; saved himself remarkably. Ah! there you are!” he muttered, as Tim flourished his immense bandanna over the head of the statue, solicitous to remove the slightest dust. “ Youre out of a place.” “ Waning me, sir ?” queried Tim, looking up. “ Oh! no, sir —it’s in me place I am,” and he wiped away s0 vigorously that the dust caused the old man to sneeze. ** Look out, you rascal!” he cried, “ you’ve got no master to indulge you now, remember.” “ Sure, an’ iv’s the same as if I had,” quoth Tim, indig- nantly. “Tl not be Paving the house, nather me nor Brid- get, till the mistress puts me out.” “ Humph—mistress—she’s not worth a farthing now, man ; how will you get your wages ?” “'Troth, an’ won't I work for me board?” queried Tim, opening his eyes. “ Sure an’ I will if the board but a crust an’ that not large enough for two iv us. It’s oney I cares about—it’s Bridget ’ll ’arn the money—for more than me, mark ye—she’d work her hands off for the misthress, an’ she'll do it if it’s necessary ## is.” “You’re a numbskull like the man that hired you,” muttered the surly old fellow, angry in his selfish heart at finding so much good in an inferior. “Tvs not you I'll be hearin’ call Mr. Harrison names, nor: any odther man,” he responded. “ There wasn’t many fit to walk in me master’s shoes; an’ if iver he turns up—which mayn’t be likely, as down in the ocean he is—he’ll prove it, ye better belave. Och! the crusty ould bach that he is,” added Tim, as the object of his wrath moved down stairs