“I am sorry,” says Allan, “to have touched so sore a place.”

“Sore?” The trooper plants his legs wider apart, wets the palm of his broad right hand, and lays it on the imaginary moustache.  “It’s no fault of yours, sir; but you shall judge.  He has got a power over me.  He is the man I spoke of just now as being able to tumble me out of this place neck and crop.  He keeps me on a constant see-saw.  He won’t hold off, and he won’t come on.  If I have a payment to make him, or time to ask him for, or anything to go to him about, he don’t see me, don’t hear me—­passes me on to Melchisedech’s in Clifford’s Inn, Melchisedech’s in Clifford’s Inn passes me back again to him—­he keeps me prowling and dangling about him as if I was made of the same stone as himself.  Why, I spend half my life now, pretty well, loitering and dodging about his door.  What does he care?  Nothing.  Just as much as the rusty old carbine I have compared him to.  He chafes and goads me till—­ Bah!  Nonsense!  I am forgetting myself.  Mr. Woodcourt,” the trooper resumes his march, “all I say is, he is an old man; but I am glad I shall never have the chance of setting spurs to my horse and riding at him in a fair field.  For if I had that chance, in one of the humours he drives me into—­he’d go down, sir!”

Mr. George has been so excited that he finds it necessary to wipe his forehead on his shirt-sleeve.  Even while he whistles his impetuosity away with the national anthem, some involuntary shakings of his head and heavings of his chest still linger behind, not to mention an occasional hasty adjustment with both hands of his open shirt-collar, as if it were scarcely open enough to prevent his being troubled by a choking sensation.  In short, Allan Woodcourt has not much doubt about the going down of Mr. Tulkinghorn on the field referred to.

Jo and his conductor presently return, and Jo is assisted to his mattress by the careful Phil, to whom, after due administration of medicine by his own hands, Allan confides all needful means and instructions.  The morning is by this time getting on apace.  He repairs to his lodgings to dress and breakfast, and then, without seeking rest, goes away to Mr. Jarndyce to communicate his discovery.

With him Mr. Jarndyce returns alone, confidentially telling him that there are reasons for keeping this matter very quiet indeed and showing a serious interest in it.  To Mr. Jarndyce, Jo repeats in substance what he said in the morning, without any material variation.  Only that cart of his is heavier to draw, and draws with a hollower sound.

“Let me lay here quiet and not be chivied no more,” falters Jo, “and be so kind any person as is a-passin nigh where I used fur to sleep, as jist to say to Mr. Sangsby that Jo, wot he known once, is a-moving on right forards with his duty, and I’ll be wery thankful.  I’d be more thankful than I am aready if it wos any ways possible for an unfortnet to be it.”