At the end of a court in Wodgate, of rather larger dimensions
than usual in that town, was a high and many-windowed house, of several stories in height, which had been added to it at intervals. It was in a most dilapidated state; the principal part occupied as a nail-workshop, where a great number of heavy iron machines were working in every room on each floor; the building itself in so shattered a condition that every part of it creaked and vibrated with their motion. The flooring was so broken that in many places one could look down through the gaping and rotten planks, while the upper floors from time to time had been shored up with props.
This was the Palace of the Bishop of Wodgate, and here with
his arms bare and black, he worked at those locks, which
defied any skeleton key that was not made by himself. He was
a short, thickset man, powerfully made, with brawny arms
disproportionately short even for his height, and with a
countenance, as far as one could judge of a face so disfigured
by his grimy toil, rather brutal than savage. His choice
apprentices, full of admiration and terror, worked about him; lank and haggard youths, who never for an instant dared to raise their dingy faces and lack-lustre eyes from their ceaseless labour. On each side of their master, seated on a stool higher than the rest, was an urchin of not more than four or five years of age, serious and demure, and as if proud of his eminent position, or working incessantly at his little file;—these were two sons of the bishop.
"Now boys," said the bishop, in a hoarse, harsh voice, "steady, there; steady. There's a file what don't sing; can't deceive my ear; I know all their voices. Don't let me find that un out, or I won't walk into him, won't I? Ayn't you lucky boys, to have reg'lar work like this, and the best of prog! It worn't my lot, I can tell you that. Give me that shut, you there, Scrubbynose, can't you move? Look sharp, or I won't move you, won't I? Steady, steady! All right! That's music. Where will you hear music like twenty files all working at once! You ought to be happy boys, oughtn't you? Won't there be a treat of fish after this, that's all! Hulloa, there, you red-haired varmint, what are you looking after? Three boys looking about them; what's all this? Won't I be among you?" and he sprang forward and seized the luckless ears of the first apprentice he could get hold off, and wrung them till the blood spouted forth.
"Please, bishop," sang out the boy, "it worn't my fault. Here's a man what wants you."
"Who wants me?" said the bishop, looking round, and he caught
the figure of Morley who had just entered the shop.
"Well, what's your will? Locks or nails?"
"Neither," said Morley; "I wish to see a man named Hatton."
"Well, you see a man named Hatton," said the bishop; "and now
what do want of him?"
"I should like to say a word to you alone," said Morley.
"Hem! I should like to know who is to finish this lock, and to
look after my boys! If it's an order, let us have it at
once."
"It is not an order," said Morley.
"Then I don't want to hear nothing about it," said the bishop.
"It's about family matters," said Morley.
"Ah!" said Hatton, eagerly, "what, do you come from him?"
"It may be," said Morley.
Upon this the bishop, looking up to the ceiling of the room in
which there were several large chinks, began calling out
lustily to some unseen person above, and immediately was
replied to in a shrill voice of objurgation, demanding in
peremptory words, interlarded with many oaths, what he wanted. His reply called down his unseen correspondent, who soon entered his workshop. It was the awful presence of Mrs Hatton; a tall, bearded virago, with a file in her hand, for that seemed the distinctive arm of the house, and eyes flashing with unbridled power.
"Look after the boys," said Hatton, "for I have business."