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 the 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.
'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？'
Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he answered，'How should I know？'
'I thought you knowed everything，father，'said the artless boy.
'Hem！Well，'returned Mr. Cruncher，going on again，and lifting off his hat to give his spikes free play.'he's a tradesman.'
'What's his goods，father？'asked the brisk Young Jerry.
'His goods，'said Mr. Cruncher，after turning it over in his mind，'is a branch of Scientific goods.'
'Persons'bodies，ain't it，father？'asked the lively boy.
'I believe it is something of that sort，'said Mr. Cruncher.
'Oh，father，I should so like to be a Resurrection-Man when I'm quite growed up！'
Mr. Cruncher was soothed，but shook his head in a dubious and moral way.'It depends on how you dewelop your talents.Be careful to dewelop your talents，and never to say no more than youcan help to nobody，and there's no telling at the present time what you may not come to be fit for.'As Young Jerry，thus encouraged，went on a few yards in advance，to plant the stool in the shadow of the Bar，Mr.Cruncher added to himself：'Jerry，you honest tradesman，there's hope wot that boy will yet be a blessing to you，and a recompense to you for his mother.'
XXI.KNITTING
T here had been earlier drinking than usual in the wine-shop of Monsieur Defarge. As early as six o'clock in the morning，sallow faces peeping through its barred windows had descried other faces within，bending over measures of wine.Monsieur Defarge sold a very thin wine at the best of times，but it would seem to have been an unusually thin wine that he sold at this time.A sour wine，moreover，or a souring，for its influence on the mood of those who drank it was to make them gloomy.No vivacious Bacchanalian flame leaped out of the pressed grape of Monsieur Defarge：but，a smouldering fire that burnt in the dark，lay hidden in the dregs of it.
This had been the third morning in succession，on which there had been early drinking at the wine-shop of Monsieur Defarge. It had been begun on Monday，and here was Wednesday come.There had been more of early brooding than drinking；for，many men had listened and whispered and slunk about there from the time of the opening of the door，who could not have laid a piece of money on the counter to save their souls.These were to the full as interested in the place，however，as if they could have commanded whole barrels of wine；and they glided from seat to seat，and from corner to corner，swallowing talk in lieu of drink，with greedy looks.
Notwithstanding an unusual flow of company，the master of the wine-shop was not visible. He was not missed；for，nobody whocrossed the threshold looked for him，nobody asked for him，nobody wondered to see only Madame Defarge in her seat，presiding over the distribution of wine，with a bowl of battered small coins before her，as much defaced and beaten out of their original impress as the small coinage of humanity from whose ragged pockets they had come.
A suspended interest and a prevalent absence of mind，were perhaps observed by the spies who looked in at the wine-shop，as they looked in at every place，high and low，from the king's palace to the criminal's gaol. Games at cards languished，players at dominoes musingly built towers with them，drinkers drew figures on the table with spilt drops of wine，Madame Defarge herself picked out the pattern on her sleeve with her toothpick，and saw and heard something invisible and inaudible a long way off.
Thus，Saint Antoine in this vinous feature of his，until midday. It was high noontide，when two dusty men passed through his streets and under his swinging lamps：of whom，one was Monsieur Defarge：the other a mender of roads in a blue cap.All adust and athirst，the two entered the wine-shop.Their arrival had lighted a kind of fire in the breast of Saint Antoine，fast spreading as they came along，which stirred and flickered in flames of faces at most doors and windows.Yet，no one had followed them，and no man spoke when they entered the wine-shop，though the eyes of every man there were turned upon them.
'Good day，gentlemen！'said Monsieur Defarge.
It may have been a signal for loosening the general tongue. It elicited an answering chorus of'Good day！'
'It is bad weather，gentlemen，'said Defarge，shaking his head.
Upon which，every man looked at his neighbour，and then all＆nbsp；cast down their eyes and sat silent. Except one man，who got up and went out.
'My wife，'said Defarge aloud，addressing Madame Defarge：'I have travelled certain leagues with this good mender of roads，called Jacques. I met him—by accident—a day and a half's journey out of Paris.He is a good child，this mender of roads，called Jacques.Give him to drink，my wife！'
A second man got up and went out. Madame Defarge set wine before the mender of roads called Jacques，who doffed his blue cap to the company，and drank.In the breast of his blouse he carried some coarse dark bread；he ate of this between whiles，and sat munching and drinking near Madame Defarge's counter.A third man got up and went out.
Defarge refreshed himself with a draught of wine—but，he took less than was given to the stranger，as being himself a man to whom it was no rarity—and stood waiting until the countryman had made his breakfast. He looked at no one present，and no one now looked at him；not even Madame Defarge，who had taken up her knitting，and was at work.
'Have you finished your repast，friend？'he asked，in due season.
