His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful occasion of his renouncing by proxy the works of darkness, in the easterly parish church of Hounsditch, he had received the added appellation of Jerry.
Cruncher's private lodging in Hanging-sword-alley, Whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy March morning, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty.
Cruncher's apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were but two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it might be counted as one.
Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a Harlequin at home.
Cruncher's domestic economy, that, whereas he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he often got up next morning to find the same boots covered with clay.
Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his mark--"what are you up to, Aggerawayter?"
Master Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal board.
Cruncher, with unconscious inconsistency, "that the worth of YOUR prayers may be?
Cruncher betook himself to his boot-cleaning and his general preparation for business.
Cruncher's temper was not at all improved when he came to his breakfast.
Exceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all night at a party which had taken anything but a convivial turn, Jerry Cruncher worried his breakfast rather than ate it, growling over it like any four-footed inmate of a menagerie.
Cruncher was as well known to Fleet-street and the Temple, as the Bar itself,--and was almost as in-looking.