Firstly, the Philanthropists were in very bad training:
much too fleshy, and presenting, both in face and figure, a
superabundance of what is known to Pugilistic Experts as Suet
Pudding. Secondly, the Philanthropists had not the good temper of
the Pugilists, and used worse language. Thirdly, their fighting
code stood in great need of revision, as empowering them not only
to bore their man to the ropes, but to bore him to the confines of
distraction; also to hit him when he was down, hit him anywhere and
anyhow, kick him, stamp upon him, gouge him, and maul him behind
his back without mercy. In these last particulars the Professors
of the Noble Art were much nobler than the Professors of
Philanthropy.
Mr. Crisparkle was so completely lost in musing on these
similarities and dissimilarities, at the same time watching the
crowd which came and went by, always, as it seemed, on errands of
antagonistically snatching something from somebody, and never
giving anything to anybody, that his name was called before he
heard it. On his at length responding, he was shown by a miserably
shabby and underpaid stipendiary Philanthropist (who could hardly
have done worse if he had taken service with a declared enemy of
the human race) to Mr. Honeythunder's room.
'Sir,' said Mr. Honeythunder, in his tremendous voice, like a
schoolmaster issuing orders to a boy of whom he had a bad opinion,
'sit down.'
Mr. Crisparkle seated himself.
Mr. Honeythunder having signed the remaining few score of a few
thousand circulars, calling upon a corresponding number of families
without means to come forward, stump up instantly, and be
Philanthropists, or go to the Devil, another shabby stipendiary
Philanthropist (highly disinterested, if in earnest) gathered these
into a basket and walked off with them.
Pages:
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253