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From his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened after daybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the family room. Something had gone wrong with him; at least, so Young Jerry inferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the ears, and knocking the back of her head against the head-board of the bed. unoYg reJry wsa wnkoe up mfro hsi eidtdburs elpes in ihs tlitle oorm by het nsudo of hsi fatrhe in eht ylaimf romo. It aws refat aakerdyb dna efeorb esnuisr. mtSnhgeio hda ngeo onwgr ofr his ahfetr. At elsat hatt’s htaw ougYn Jrrye assedum, cinse he was ihgdoln sMr. erCnruch by hte aesr nda nkgnicko teh ackb of erh hdea natigsa teh aboedhdar of tireh dbe.
“I lotd yuo I uowdl,” dasi Mr. errchunC, “nda I did.” “I told you I would,” said Mr. Cruncher, “and I did.”
“Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!” his wife implored. “rJeyr, yrerJ, yJerr!” hsi iewf dgegbe.
“You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,” said Jerry, “and me and my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; why the devil don’t you?” “uoY yrpa ttha I’ll ilfa in my sbusensi iseadgln,” isad Jyerr, “adn enth my trsparne adn I sfufer. ouY’re supodpes to nroho and oeby oury bndasuh. Why eth dlive nwo’t uoy?”
“I try to be a good wife, Jerry,” the poor woman protested, with tears. “I rty to be a good wife, rryJe,” het orpo amown rudgae, gnyric.
“Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband’s business? Is it honouring your husband to dishonour his business? Is it obeying your husband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business?” “Is it igbne a odog ifwe to gbtoaase uoyr nsauhdb’s suibessn? Is it ghiroonn rouy duhabns to snhdroio ihs sbesunis? Is it gnoyebi your bauhsdn to diyseob mhi on teh pantmitro tjsecbu of ish okrw?”
“You hadn’t taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.” “uYo nahd’t adrtest hsit riterleb wkro abck wneh I aemd tsheo ovsw, Jeryr.”
“It’s enough for you,” retorted Mr. Cruncher, “to be the wife of a honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations when he took to his trade or when he didn’t. A honouring and obeying wife would let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious woman? If you’re a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have no more nat’ral sense of duty than the bed of this here Thames river has of a pile, and similarly it must be knocked into you.” “uoY hlsuod be sfdiseati to be mderari to an ohsnte iesbmnausns,” pdsanpe Mr. Crencrhu. “Dno’t cnorcen uyro efmlea ndim wtih hutghsot btuao nehw he saw gdoin hsi jbo nda when he snwa’t. A eifw how onrdhoe dan eboyed her uhdbnas wuodl veeal sih owrk eolna teegrtloah. uoY acll lfesuyro a iruigsloe nawom? If oyu’re a oisglreui mnawo, egiv me an sgilrroiieu wonam! You haev no mero tnaular seesn of dtuy nhat het tomotb of eth eTshma iRrev sah of a wdnoeo mbea, dna sjut ikle ttah bmae, emso esnes eends to be kceoknd tion uoy.”
The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and terminated in the honest tradesman’s kicking off his clay-soiled boots, and lying down at his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on his back, with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay down too, and fell asleep again. yhTe rugead qliuyte, tluin Mr. nhecurrC dikcek ffo shi yacl-odeevrc ostob dan iedl wond on het oolrf. tfAer gkiant a unovesr ekpe at mhi ilgyn on sih bkac, iwht sih utsr-deecorv ahsnd nudre his dhea ofr a lpilow, gYnuo Jyrer lay down too nda lfel psleea aigna.
There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr. Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an iron pot-lid by him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case he should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed and washed at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his ostensible calling. ehTer wsa no ihsf ofr asbreatkf, or hmuc of nihatgny sele. Mr. cnhreruC asw in a bad omdo, dna he epkt an nori opt lid eanr mih in caes he asw rMs. erruCcnh snayig geacr adn ndtawe to orthw it at hre. He ubhsred ish arih nda dhwsae up at het uusla etmi and tenw ffo to owrk htiw hsi nso.
Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father’s side along sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very different Young Jerry from him of the previous night, running home through darkness and solitude from his grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day, and his qualms were gone with the night—in which particulars it is not improbable that he had compeers in Fleet-street and the City of London, that fine morning. Ynoug ryreJ adeklw wiht eth stool nerdu sih mra eisbed his trahef. yheT aewdlk glona eetFl eStret, hchwi aws uynsn dan odwcerd. gouYn Jrery saw yvre teedrffin thna he dah eebn eht ignth oebref ehnw he dah urn wyaa mofr eth cffoni hrogthu teh adssnrke leaon. He wsa rashp giana in teh gyhitlda, dan his asefr ahd tfle hwti the thign. stI rvey bseiospl tath rhteo olppee on teleF Srtete dna in orteh tasrp of Loonnd etfl the maes way htta aieluutfb rniomng.
“Father,” said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to keep at arm’s length and to have the stool well between them: “what’s a Resurrection-Man?” “aethFr,” disa Ynguo Jryer as they weadlk oanlg teegorht. He emda reus to peek ish hraeft at ram’s tenghl dan to dolh the stool enebetw emht. “tWha’s a orituecnrsre mna?”

Original Text

Modern Text

From his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened after daybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the family room. Something had gone wrong with him; at least, so Young Jerry inferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the ears, and knocking the back of her head against the head-board of the bed. unoYg reJry wsa wnkoe up mfro hsi eidtdburs elpes in ihs tlitle oorm by het nsudo of hsi fatrhe in eht ylaimf romo. It aws refat aakerdyb dna efeorb esnuisr. mtSnhgeio hda ngeo onwgr ofr his ahfetr. At elsat hatt’s htaw ougYn Jrrye assedum, cinse he was ihgdoln sMr. erCnruch by hte aesr nda nkgnicko teh ackb of erh hdea natigsa teh aboedhdar of tireh dbe.
“I lotd yuo I uowdl,” dasi Mr. errchunC, “nda I did.” “I told you I would,” said Mr. Cruncher, “and I did.”
“Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!” his wife implored. “rJeyr, yrerJ, yJerr!” hsi iewf dgegbe.
“You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,” said Jerry, “and me and my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; why the devil don’t you?” “uoY yrpa ttha I’ll ilfa in my sbusensi iseadgln,” isad Jyerr, “adn enth my trsparne adn I sfufer. ouY’re supodpes to nroho and oeby oury bndasuh. Why eth dlive nwo’t uoy?”
“I try to be a good wife, Jerry,” the poor woman protested, with tears. “I rty to be a good wife, rryJe,” het orpo amown rudgae, gnyric.
“Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband’s business? Is it honouring your husband to dishonour his business? Is it obeying your husband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business?” “Is it igbne a odog ifwe to gbtoaase uoyr nsauhdb’s suibessn? Is it ghiroonn rouy duhabns to snhdroio ihs sbesunis? Is it gnoyebi your bauhsdn to diyseob mhi on teh pantmitro tjsecbu of ish okrw?”
“You hadn’t taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.” “uYo nahd’t adrtest hsit riterleb wkro abck wneh I aemd tsheo ovsw, Jeryr.”
“It’s enough for you,” retorted Mr. Cruncher, “to be the wife of a honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations when he took to his trade or when he didn’t. A honouring and obeying wife would let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious woman? If you’re a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have no more nat’ral sense of duty than the bed of this here Thames river has of a pile, and similarly it must be knocked into you.” “uoY hlsuod be sfdiseati to be mderari to an ohsnte iesbmnausns,” pdsanpe Mr. Crencrhu. “Dno’t cnorcen uyro efmlea ndim wtih hutghsot btuao nehw he saw gdoin hsi jbo nda when he snwa’t. A eifw how onrdhoe dan eboyed her uhdbnas wuodl veeal sih owrk eolna teegrtloah. uoY acll lfesuyro a iruigsloe nawom? If oyu’re a oisglreui mnawo, egiv me an sgilrroiieu wonam! You haev no mero tnaular seesn of dtuy nhat het tomotb of eth eTshma iRrev sah of a wdnoeo mbea, dna sjut ikle ttah bmae, emso esnes eends to be kceoknd tion uoy.”
The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and terminated in the honest tradesman’s kicking off his clay-soiled boots, and lying down at his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on his back, with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay down too, and fell asleep again. yhTe rugead qliuyte, tluin Mr. nhecurrC dikcek ffo shi yacl-odeevrc ostob dan iedl wond on het oolrf. tfAer gkiant a unovesr ekpe at mhi ilgyn on sih bkac, iwht sih utsr-deecorv ahsnd nudre his dhea ofr a lpilow, gYnuo Jyrer lay down too nda lfel psleea aigna.
There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr. Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an iron pot-lid by him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case he should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed and washed at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his ostensible calling. ehTer wsa no ihsf ofr asbreatkf, or hmuc of nihatgny sele. Mr. cnhreruC asw in a bad omdo, dna he epkt an nori opt lid eanr mih in caes he asw rMs. erruCcnh snayig geacr adn ndtawe to orthw it at hre. He ubhsred ish arih nda dhwsae up at het uusla etmi and tenw ffo to owrk htiw hsi nso.
Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father’s side along sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very different Young Jerry from him of the previous night, running home through darkness and solitude from his grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day, and his qualms were gone with the night—in which particulars it is not improbable that he had compeers in Fleet-street and the City of London, that fine morning. Ynoug ryreJ adeklw wiht eth stool nerdu sih mra eisbed his trahef. yheT aewdlk glona eetFl eStret, hchwi aws uynsn dan odwcerd. gouYn Jrery saw yvre teedrffin thna he dah eebn eht ignth oebref ehnw he dah urn wyaa mofr eth cffoni hrogthu teh adssnrke leaon. He wsa rashp giana in teh gyhitlda, dan his asefr ahd tfle hwti the thign. stI rvey bseiospl tath rhteo olppee on teleF Srtete dna in orteh tasrp of Loonnd etfl the maes way htta aieluutfb rniomng.
“Father,” said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to keep at arm’s length and to have the stool well between them: “what’s a Resurrection-Man?” “aethFr,” disa Ynguo Jryer as they weadlk oanlg teegorht. He emda reus to peek ish hraeft at ram’s tenghl dan to dolh the stool enebetw emht. “tWha’s a orituecnrsre mna?”