Part 4

“Master Copperfield,” said Mrs. Micawber, “God bless you! I never can forget all that, you know, and I never would if I could.”

“Copperfield,” said Mr. Micawber, “farewell. Every happiness and prosperity. If, in the progress of revolving years, I could persuade myself that my blighted destiny had been a warning to you, I should feel that I had not occupied another man’s place in existence altogether in vain. In case of anything turning up (of which I am rather confident), I shall be extremely happy if it should be in my power to improve your prospects.”

I think, as Mrs. Micawber sat at the back of the coach, with the children, and I stood in the road looking wistfully at them, a mist cleared from her eyes, and she saw what a little creature I really was. I think so, because she beckoned to me to climb up, with quite a new and motherly expression in her face, and put her arm round my neck, and gave me just such a kiss as she might have given to her own boy. I had barely time to get down again before the coach started, and I could hardly see the family for the handkerchiefs they waved. It was gone in a minute.

ON THE ROAD TO DOVER

VI

ON THE ROAD TO DOVER

AFTER his friends the Micawbers had left London David Copperfield was very lonesome and decided to set out on a journey and find his aunt, Miss Betsy Trotwood. He had a box which he intended to send to the coach office in Dover, and he had a half-guinea in his pocket.

Unfortunately he met a long-legged young man who was driving a donkey cart, who robbed him of his box and his money. David followed the young man as long as he could and then sat down by the side of the road. He searched his pockets and found only three halfpence. But his experience with Mr. Micawber had taught him that he could borrow money at a pawn-shop. He tells the story of what happened.

* * * * *

I went to the next street and took off my waistcoat, rolled it neatly under my arm, and came to the shop door. Mr. Dolloby was the name over the door.

Mr. Dolloby took the waistcoat, spread it on the counter, held it up against the light, and at last said:

“What do you call a price for this here little weskit?”

“Oh, you know best, sir,” I returned modestly.

“I can’t be buyer and seller too,” said Mr. Dolloby. “Put a price on this little weskit.”

“Would eighteen pence be--” I hinted.

Mr. Dolloby rolled it up again and gave it back to me.

“I should rob my family if I was to offer ninepence for it.”

This was a disagreeable way of putting it, for I did not want to ask Mr. Dolloby to rob his family on my account. I would have to make the best of my way to Dover in a shirt and a pair of trousers.

That night I lay behind a wall. Never shall I forget the feeling of loneliness as I lay down without a roof over my head. But soon I was asleep, and slept until the warm beams of the sun awoke me.

The next day was Sunday. In due time I heard the church bells ringing. I passed a church or two where the congregations were inside. The peace and rest of Sunday morning were on everything but me. I felt quite wicked in my dust and dirt, and my tangled hair.

I got that Sunday to the bridge at Rochester footsore and tired, and eating food that I had bought for supper. I toiled on to Chatham and crept upon a sort of grass-grown battery, where a sentry was walking to and fro. Here I lay near a cannon, happy in the society of the sentry’s footsteps, though he knew nothing of my being there.

Very stiff and sore of foot I was in the morning, and quite dazed by the beating of drums and marching of troops, which seemed to hem me in on every side when I went down toward the long, narrow street. Feeling that I could go but a very little way that day, if I were to reserve my strength for getting to my journey’s end, I resolved to make the sale of my jacket its principal business. Accordingly, I took the jacket off, that I might learn to do without it; and carrying it under my arm, began a tour of inspection of the various slop-shops.

It was a likely place to sell a jacket in; for the dealers in second-hand clothes were numerous, and were, generally speaking, on the lookout for customers at their shop doors. But, as most of them had, hanging up among their stock, an officer’s coat or two, epaulets and all, I was rendered timid by the costly nature of their dealings, and walked about for a long time without offering my merchandise to any one.

This modesty of mine directed my attention to the marine-store shops, and such shops as Mr. Dolloby’s, in preference to the regular dealers. At last I found one that I thought looked promising, at the corner of a dirty lane, ending in an inclosure full of stinging nettles, against the palings of which some second-hand sailors’ clothes, that seemed to have overflown the shop, were fluttering among some cots, and rusty guns, and oilskin hats, and certain trays full of so many old rusty keys of so many sizes that they seemed various enough to open all the doors in the world.

Into this shop, which was low and small, and which was darkened rather than lighted by a little window, overhung with clothes, and was descended into by some steps, I went with a palpitating heart; which was not relieved when an ugly old man, with the lower part of his face all covered with a stubby gray beard, rushed out of a dirty den behind it, and seized me by the hair of my head. He was a dreadful old man to look at, in a filthy flannel waistcoat, and smelling terribly of rum. His bedstead, covered with a tumbled and ragged piece of patchwork, was in the den he had come from, where another little window showed a prospect of more stinging nettles, and a lame donkey.

“Oh, what do you want?” grinned this old man in a fierce, monotonous whine. “Oh, my eyes and limbs, what do you want? Oh, my lungs and liver, what do you want? Oh, goroo, goroo!”

I was so much dismayed by these words, and particularly by the repetition of the last unknown one, which was a kind of rattle in his throat, that I could make no answer; whereupon the old man, still holding me by the hair, repeated:

“Oh, what do you want? Oh, my lungs and liver, what do you want?”

“I want to know,” I said trembling, “if you would buy a jacket?”

“Oh, let’s see the jacket. Bring the jacket out.”

With that he took his trembling hands, which were like the claws of a bird, out of my hair.

“How much for the jacket?” cried the old man. “Oh, goroo, how much for the jacket?”

“Half a crown,” I answered.

“Oh, my lungs and liver, no. Oh, my eyes, no. Eighteen pence. Goroo.”

Every time he said goroo his eyes seemed in danger of popping out of his head.

“Well,” said I, “I’ll take eighteen pence.”

“Oh, my liver,” cried the old man, throwing the jacket on the shelf. “Get out of the shop. Don’t ask for money, make it an exchange.”

He made many attempts to make me consent to an exchange, at one time coming out with a fishing-rod, at another with a fiddle, at another with a cocked hat, at another with a flute. But I wanted the money to buy food. At last he began to pay me in halfpence at a time, and was full two hours getting by easy stages to a shilling.

My bed that night was under a haystack, where I rested comfortably, after having washed my blistered feet in a stream. When I took the road again next morning it was through hop fields and orchards. The orchards were ruddy with bright apples, and in a few places the hop-pickers were already at work. I thought it all extremely beautiful, and I would have enjoyed it if it had not been for the people I met on the road.

The trampers were worse than ever that day, and inspired me with a dread that is yet quite fresh in my mind. Some of them were most ferocious looking ruffians, who stared at me as I went by; and stopped, perhaps, and called after me to come back and speak to them; and when I took to my heels, stoned me. I recollect one young fellow--a tinker, I suppose, from his wallet and brazier--who had a woman with him, and who faced about and stared at me thus; and then roared at me in such a tremendous voice to come back, that I halted and looked round.

“Come here, when you’re called,” said the tinker, “or I’ll rip your young body open.”

I thought it best to go back. As I drew nearer to them, trying to propitiate the tinker by my looks, I observed that the woman had a black eye.

“Where are you going?” said the tinker, gripping the bosom of my shirt with his blackened hand.

“I’m going to Dover,” I said.

“Where do you come from?” asked the tinker, giving his hand another turn in my shirt to hold me more securely.

“I come from London,” I said.

“What lay are you upon?” asked the tinker. “Are you a prig?”

“N--no,” I said.

“Ain’t you! If you make a brag of your honesty to me,” said the tinker, “I’ll knock your brains out.”

With his disengaged hand he made a menace of striking me, and then looked at me from head to foot.

“Have you got the price of a pint of beer about you?” said the tinker. “If you have, out with it, afore I take it away.”

I should certainly have produced it, but that I met the woman’s look, and saw her very slightly shake her head, and form “No” with her lips.

“I am very poor,” I said, attempting to smile, “and have got no money.”

“Why, what do you mean?” said the tinker, looking so sternly at me, that I almost feared he saw the money in my pocket.

“Sir!” I stammered.

“What do you mean,” said the tinker, “by wearing my brother’s silk handkerchief? Give it over here!” And he had mine off my neck in a moment, and tossed it to the woman.

The woman burst into a fit of laughter, as if she thought this a joke, and tossing it back to me, nodded once, as slightly as before, and made the word “Go!” with her lips.

It was on the sixth day of my flight that I came to my aunt’s house. My shoes were by this time in a woeful condition. My hat was crushed and bent. My shirt and trousers were stained with peat, dew, grass, and the Kentish soil on which I had slept. My hair had known no comb or brush since I left London. From head to foot I was powdered with chalk as if I had come out of a lime kiln.

There came out of the house a lady with a handkerchief tied over her cap, a pair of gardening gloves on her hands, and carrying a great knife. I knew her, immediately, to be my Aunt Betsy.

“Go away!” said Miss Betsy, shaking her head. “Go along! No boys here!”

“If you please, ma’am,” I began. She started and looked up.

“If you please, aunt.”

“Eh!” exclaimed Miss Betsy in a tone of amazement I have never heard approached.

“If you please, aunt, I am your nephew.”

“Oh, Lord!” said my aunt, and sat flat down on the garden path.

“I am David Copperfield. I have been very unhappy since my mother died. I was put to work that was not fit for me. It made me run away to you. I was robbed when I set out and have walked all the way and have never slept in a bed since I began the journey.”

My aunt got up in a great hurry, collared me and took me into the parlor. Her first proceeding was to unlock a tall cupboard, bring forth several bottles, and pour some of the contents of each into my mouth. I think they must have been taken out at random, for I am sure I tasted aniseed water, anchovy sauce, and salad dressing. Then she put me on the sofa, with a shawl under my head, and, sitting by my side, repeated at intervals, “Mercy on us!”

Then I was given a bath, which was a great comfort. For I began to be sensitive of pains from lying out in the fields. When I had bathed they enrobed me in a shirt and a pair of trousers too big for me, and tied me up in two or three big shawls. What sort of a bundle I looked like I do not know. Feeling very drowsy, I lay down on the sofa and was soon fast asleep.

Then I was put to bed in a pleasant room at the top of the house. It was overlooking the sea, on which the moon was shining. After I had said my prayers and the candle had burned out I sat looking at the moonlight on the water. Then I turned to the white curtained bed. I remember how I thought of all the solitary places under the night sky where I had slept, and I prayed that I might never be houseless any more, and never might forget the houseless.

JOE THE FAT BOY

VII

JOE THE FAT BOY

WHEN we think of famous people, we take for granted that they did something remarkable. But this is not always true. One of the most famous characters of fiction is the Fat Boy in _The Pickwick Papers_. Everybody remembers him. But what did he do to earn his reputation? He did nothing at all but go to sleep under all circumstances. It was his gift.

Joe was the footman, or rather the footboy, of Mr. Wardle, a good-natured gentleman who lived at Dingley Dell. Now four other good-natured gentlemen had started out from London in search of adventures. Their names were Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Snodgrass, Mr. Tupman, and Mr. Winkle. They didn’t know where they were going, but that didn’t matter. They intended to have a good time and to see the country. When they returned they were sure that they would have something to tell about. So when they came to the pleasant city of Rochester, they were delighted to find that there was to be a great review of the troops. The soldiers were to take part in a mimic battle. Everything was to be like real war, except that nobody was to be hurt. This was just what Mr. Pickwick and his friends wanted to see.

It was all very fine so long as the soldiers were firing in other directions. But it was different when Mr. Pickwick saw the muskets pointed in their direction. This was getting decidedly dangerous.

“What are they doing now?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.

“I rather think,” said Mr. Winkle, “that they are going to fire.”

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Pickwick.

“I--I--really think they are,” urged Mr. Snodgrass, somewhat alarmed.

“Impossible,” replied Mr. Pickwick. He had hardly uttered the words when the whole half-dozen regiments levelled their muskets at Mr. Pickwick and his friends, and there burst forth the most tremendous discharge. Mr. Pickwick assured his friends that there was no danger.

“But suppose,” said Mr. Winkle, “that some of the men should have ball cartridges by mistake. I heard something whistle in the air just now.”

“We had better throw ourselves on our faces, hadn’t we?” said Mr. Snodgrass.

“No, it’s over now,” said Mr. Pickwick.

But it wasn’t over. A minute after, the order was given to charge with fixed bayonets, and Mr. Pickwick and his friends saw the six regiments charging across the field to the very spot where they were standing.

“Get out of the way!” cried the officers.

“Where are we to go to?” screamed Mr. Pickwick.

There was nothing for Mr. Pickwick and his friends to do but to get out of the way as fast as they could. There was a gentle wind blowing, and it carried Mr. Pickwick’s hat across the field. He ran after it as fast as he could, till it went under the wheels of a carriage from which the horses had been taken out. In the carriage was a stout old gentleman in a blue coat and bright buttons, corduroy breeches and top boots, two young ladies in scarfs and feathers, and an aunt. At the back of the carriage was a huge hamper with cold chicken, ham, tongue, and all the materials for a picnic, and on the box sat a very fat and very red-faced boy, sound asleep.

The stout gentleman in the blue coat was Mr. Wardle, who instantly became a warm friend of Mr. Pickwick, and invited him to get into the carriage and have something to eat.

“Come along, sir, pray come up. Joe! That boy has gone to sleep again. Joe, let down the steps.” The fat boy rolled slowly off the box, let down the steps, and held the carriage door invitingly open.

“Room for you all, gentlemen,” said the stout man. “Joe, make room for one of these gentlemen on the box. Now, sir, come along.” And he pulled Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Snodgrass in by main force.

When they were all in the carriage, Mr. Wardle called to Joe, who had again gone to sleep, to prepare for the lunch.

“Now Joe, knives and forks.” The knives and forks were handed to the ladies and gentlemen inside.

“Plates, Joe, plates!” But Joe had dropped to sleep again. “Now, Joe, the fowls. Come hand in the eatables!”

There was something in the last words that roused Joe to the greatest activity, for he was always ready to eat.

“That’s right--look sharp. Now the tongue--now the pigeon pie. Take care of the veal and ham--mind the lobsters--take the salad out of the cloth--give me the dressing.” The various dishes were placed in everybody’s hands and on everybody’s knees.

“Now, ain’t this capital?” inquired Mr. Wardle.

“Capital!” said Mr. Winkle, who was carving a fowl on the box.

Everybody was eating and talking at the same time, and they felt that they had always known each other. All except Joe, who preferred a nap to conversation.

“Very extraordinary boy, that,” said Mr. Pickwick. “Does he always sleep that way?”

“Sleep!” said the old gentleman, “he’s always asleep. Goes on errands fast asleep, and snores as he waits at the table.”

“How very odd,” said Mr. Pickwick.

“Ah! odd indeed,” returned the old gentleman; “I’m proud of that boy--wouldn’t part with him on any account--he’s a natural curiosity! Here, Joe--Joe--take these things away, and open another bottle--d’ye hear?”

The fat boy rose, opened his eyes, swallowed the huge piece of pie he had been in the act of masticating when he last fell asleep, and slowly obeyed his master’s orders--gloating languidly over the remains of the feast, as he removed the plates, and deposited them in the hamper. The fresh bottle was produced, and speedily emptied: the hamper was made fast in its old place--the fat boy once more mounted the box--the spectacles and pocket-glass were again adjusted--and the evolutions of the military recommenced. There was a great fizzing and banging of guns, and starting of ladies--and then a mine was sprung, to the gratification of everybody--and when the mine had gone off, the military and the company followed its example, and went off too.

“Now, mind,” said the old gentleman, as he shook hands with Mr. Pickwick at the conclusion of a conversation which had been carried on at intervals, during the conclusion of the proceedings--“we shall see you all to-morrow.”

“Most certainly,” replied Mr. Pickwick.

“You have got the address?”

“Manor Farm, Dingley Dell,” said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his pocket-book.

“That’s it,” said the old gentleman. “I don’t let you off, mind, under a week; and undertake that you shall see everything worth seeing. If you’ve come down for a country life, come to me, and I’ll give you plenty of it. Joe--he’s gone to sleep again--Joe, help Tom put in the horses.”

The horses were put in--the driver mounted--the fat boy clambered up by his side--farewells were exchanged--and the carriage rattled off. As the Pickwickians turned round to take a last glimpse of it, the setting sun cast a rich glow on the faces of their entertainers, and fell upon the form of the fat boy. His head was sunk upon his bosom; and he slumbered again.

OLIVER TWIST

VIII

OLIVER TWIST

OLIVER TWIST was born in a poorhouse, where his mother died. The superintendent, Mr. Bumble, was a detestable man, who did all that he could to make the paupers in his institution even more unhappy than they were. He fed the boys on very thin gruel and gave them very little of that. One day when he was particularly hungry, Oliver said:

“Please, sir, I want some more.”

Every one was horrified, and poor Oliver was beaten and shut up in a little room where he could meditate on his sin. Soon after, he was given into the hands of Mr. Sowerberry, who was as cruel as Mr. Bumble himself. The upshot of it was that Oliver put a crust of bread, a shirt and two pairs of stockings in a bundle, and ran away. Of course, there was only one place to run away to, and that was London.

Oliver had been six days on the London road when he limped into the little town of Barnet. There he met a boy of his own age, who was the queerest-looking creature he had ever seen. His name was Jack Dawkins, but he was known by all the people who knew him as the Artful Dodger. He was a snub-nosed boy with a dirty face. His hat was on one side of his head and was always about to fall off. He wore a ragged coat which was too large for him, and had turned the coat-sleeves back half-way up his arms.

[Illustration:

_Copyright by Charles Scribner’s Sons_

OLIVER’S FIRST MEETING WITH THE ARTFUL DODGER]

“Hullo, what’s the row?” said the Artful Dodger.

“I am very hungry and tired. I have walked a long way. I have been walking seven days.”

“Walking for sivin days! Come, you want grub, and you shall have it.”

He took Oliver into a little shop and bought some ham and bread, which was quietly devoured.

“Going to London?” said the strange boy.

“Yes.”

“Got any lodgings?”

“No.”

“Money?”

“No.”

The strange boy whistled; and put his hands into his pockets, as far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go.

“Do you live in London?” inquired Oliver.

“Yes, I do, when I’m at home,” replied the boy. “I suppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” answered Oliver. “I have not slept under a roof since I left the country.”