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She was prevented from witnessing the actual retirement of Mrs. Prig from the room, notwithstanding the great desire she had expressed to behold it, by that lady, in her angry withdrawal, coming into contact with the bedstead, and bringing down the previously mentioned pippins; three or four of which came rattling on the head of Mrs. Gamp so smartly, that when she recovered from this wooden shower-bath, Mrs. Prig was gone.

She had the satisfaction, however, of hearing the deep voice of Betsey, proclaiming her injuries and her determination to have nothing to do with Mr. Chuffey, down the stairs, and along the passage, and even out in Kingsgate Street. Likewise of seeing in her own apartment, in the place of Mrs. Prig, Mr. Sweedlepipe and two gentlemen.

`Why, bless my life!' exclaimed the little barber, `what's amiss? The noise you ladies have been making, Mrs. Gamp! Why, these two gentlemen have been standing on the stairs, outside the door, nearly all the time, trying to make you hear, while you were pelting away, hammer and tongs!

It'll be the death of the little bullfinch in the shop, that draws his own water. In his fright, he's been a-straining himself all to bits, drawing more water than he could drink in a twelvemonth. He must have thought it was Fire!'

Mrs. Gamp had in the meanwhile sunk into her chair, from whence, turning up her overflowing eyes, and clasping her hands, she delivered the following lamentation:

`Oh, Mr. Sweedlepipes, which Mr. Westlock also, if my eyes do not deceive, and a friend not havin' the pleasure of bein' beknown, wot I have took from Betsey Prig this blessed night, no mortial creetur knows! If she had abuged me, bein' in liquor, which I thought I smelt her wen she come, but could not so believe, not bein' used myself' -- Mrs. Gamp, by the way, was pretty far gone, and the fragrance of the teapot was strong in the room -- `I could have bore it with a thankful art. But the words she spoke of Mrs. Harris, lambs could not forgive. No, Betsey!' said Mrs. Gamp, in a violent burst of feeling, `nor worms forget!'

The little barber scratched his head, and shook it, and looked at the teapot, and gradually got out of the room. John Westlock, taking a chair, sat down on one side of Mrs. Gamp. Martin, taking the foot of the bed, supported her on the other.

`You wonder what we want, I dare say,' observed John. `I'll tell you presently, when you have recovered. It's not pressing, for a few minutes or so. How do you find yourself? Better?'

Mrs. Gamp shed more tears, shook her head and feebly pronounced Mrs.

Harris's name.

`Have a little --' John was at a loss what to call it.

`Tea,' suggested Martin.

`It ain't tea,' said Mrs. Gamp.

`Physic of some sort, I suppose,' cried John. `Have a little.'

Mrs. Gamp was prevailed upon to take a glassful. `on condition,' she passionately observed, `as Betsey never has another stroke of work from me.'

`Certainly not,' said John. `She shall never help to nurse me.'

`To think,' said Mrs. Gamp, `as she should ever have helped to nuss that fiend of yourn, and been so near of hearing things that -- Ah!'

John looked at Martin.

`Yes,' he said. `That was a narrow escape, Mrs. Gamp.'

`Narrer, in-deed!' she returned. `It was only my having the night, and hearin' of him in his wanderins; and her the day, that saved it. Wot would she have said and done, if she had know'd what I know; that perfeejus wretch! Yet, oh good gracious me!' cried Mrs. Gamp, trampling on the floor, in the absence of Mrs. Prig, `that I should hear from that same woman's lips what I have heerd her speak of Mrs. Harris!'

`Never mind,' said John. `You know it is not true.'

`Isn't true!' cried Mrs. Gamp. `True! Don't I know as that dear woman is expecting of me at this minnit, Mr. Westlock, and is a-lookin' out of window down the street, with little Tommy Harris in her arms, as calls me his own Gammy, and truly calls, for bless the mottled little legs of that there precious child (like Canterbury Brawn his own dear father says, which so they are) his own I have been, ever since I found him, Mr. Westlock, with his small red worsted shoe a-gurglin' in his throat, where he had put it in his play, a chick, wile they was leavin' of him on the floor a-lookin' for it through the ouse and him a-choakin' sweetly in the parlour!