第 11 页

The carrier looked at me, as if to inquire if she were coming back. I

shook my head, and said I thought not. ‘Then come up,’ said the carrier

to the lazy horse; who came up accordingly.

Having by this time cried as much as I possibly could, I began to think

it was of no use crying any more, especially as neither Roderick Random,

nor that Captain in the Royal British Navy, had ever cried, that I

could remember, in trying situations. The carrier, seeing me in this

resolution, proposed that my pocket-handkerchief should be spread upon

the horse’s back to dry. I thanked him, and assented; and particularly

small it looked, under those circumstances.

I had now leisure to examine the purse. It was a stiff leather purse,

with a snap, and had three bright shillings in it, which Peggotty had

evidently polished up with whitening, for my greater delight. But its

most precious contents were two half-crowns folded together in a bit

of paper, on which was written, in my mother’s hand, ‘For Davy. With my

love.’ I was so overcome by this, that I asked the carrier to be so good

as to reach me my pocket-handkerchief again; but he said he thought I

had better do without it, and I thought I really had, so I wiped my eyes

on my sleeve and stopped myself.

For good, too; though, in consequence of my previous emotions, I was

still occasionally seized with a stormy sob. After we had jogged on for

some little time, I asked the carrier if he was going all the way.

‘All the way where?’ inquired the carrier.

‘There,’ I said.

‘Where’s there?’ inquired the carrier.

‘Near London,’ I said.

‘Why that horse,’ said the carrier, jerking the rein to point him out,

‘would be deader than pork afore he got over half the ground.’

‘Are you only going to Yarmouth then?’ I asked.

‘That’s about it,’ said the carrier. ‘And there I shall take you to the

stage-cutch, and the stage-cutch that’ll take you to--wherever it is.’

As this was a great deal for the carrier (whose name was Mr. Barkis)

to say--he being, as I observed in a former chapter, of a phlegmatic

temperament, and not at all conversational--I offered him a cake as a

mark of attention, which he ate at one gulp, exactly like an elephant,

and which made no more impression on his big face than it would have

done on an elephant’s.

‘Did SHE make ‘em, now?’ said Mr. Barkis, always leaning forward, in his

slouching way, on the footboard of the cart with an arm on each knee.

‘Peggotty, do you mean, sir?’

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Barkis. ‘Her.’

‘Yes. She makes all our pastry, and does all our cooking.’

‘Do she though?’ said Mr. Barkis. He made up his mouth as if to whistle,

but he didn’t whistle. He sat looking at the horse’s ears, as if he saw

something new there; and sat so, for a considerable time. By and by, he

said:

‘No sweethearts, I b’lieve?’

‘Sweetmeats did you say, Mr. Barkis?’ For I thought he wanted

something else to eat, and had pointedly alluded to that description of

refreshment.

‘Hearts,’ said Mr. Barkis. ‘Sweet hearts; no person walks with her!’

‘With Peggotty?’

‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Her.’

‘Oh, no. She never had a sweetheart.’

‘Didn’t she, though!’ said Mr. Barkis.

Again he made up his mouth to whistle, and again he didn’t whistle, but

sat looking at the horse’s ears.

‘So she makes,’ said Mr. Barkis, after a long interval of reflection,

‘all the apple parsties, and doos all the cooking, do she?’

I replied that such was the fact.

‘Well. I’ll tell you what,’ said Mr. Barkis. ‘P’raps you might be

writin’ to her?’

‘I shall certainly write to her,’ I rejoined.

‘Ah!’ he said, slowly turning his eyes towards me. ‘Well! If you was

writin’ to her, p’raps you’d recollect to say that Barkis was willin’;

would you?’

‘That Barkis is willing,’ I repeated, innocently. ‘Is that all the

message?’

‘Ye-es,’ he said, considering. ‘Ye-es. Barkis is willin’.’

‘But you will be at Blunderstone again tomorrow, Mr. Barkis,’ I said,

faltering a little at the idea of my being far away from it then, and

could give your own message so much better.’

As he repudiated this suggestion, however, with a jerk of his head,

and once more confirmed his previous request by saying, with profound

gravity, ‘Barkis is willin’. That’s the message,’ I readily undertook

its transmission. While I was waiting for the coach in the hotel

at Yarmouth that very afternoon, I procured a sheet of paper and

an inkstand, and wrote a note to Peggotty, which ran thus: ‘My dear

Peggotty. I have come here safe. Barkis is willing. My love to mama.

Yours affectionately. P.S. He says he particularly wants you to

know--BARKIS IS WILLING.’

When I had taken this commission on myself prospectively, Mr. Barkis

relapsed into perfect silence; and I, feeling quite worn out by all that

had happened lately, lay down on a sack in the cart and fell asleep. I

slept soundly until we got to Yarmouth; which was so entirely new

and strange to me in the inn-yard to which we drove, that I at once

abandoned a latent hope I had had of meeting with some of Mr. Peggotty’s

family there, perhaps even with little Em’ly herself.

The coach was in the yard, shining very much all over, but without any

horses to it as yet; and it looked in that state as if nothing was

more unlikely than its ever going to London. I was thinking this, and

wondering what would ultimately become of my box, which Mr. Barkis had

put down on the yard-pavement by the pole (he having driven up the yard

to turn his cart), and also what would ultimately become of me, when a

lady looked out of a bow-window where some fowls and joints of meat were

hanging up, and said:

‘Is that the little gentleman from Blunderstone?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said.

‘What name?’ inquired the lady.

‘Copperfield, ma’am,’ I said.

‘That won’t do,’ returned the lady. ‘Nobody’s dinner is paid for here,

in that name.’

‘Is it Murdstone, ma’am?’ I said.

‘If you’re Master Murdstone,’ said the lady, ‘why do you go and give

another name, first?’

I explained to the lady how it was, who than rang a bell, and called

out, ‘William! show the coffee-room!’ upon which a waiter came running

out of a kitchen on the opposite side of the yard to show it, and seemed

a good deal surprised when he was only to show it to me.

It was a large long room with some large maps in it. I doubt if I could

have felt much stranger if the maps had been real foreign countries, and

I cast away in the middle of them. I felt it was taking a liberty to

sit down, with my cap in my hand, on the corner of the chair nearest the

door; and when the waiter laid a cloth on purpose for me, and put a set

of castors on it, I think I must have turned red all over with modesty.

He brought me some chops, and vegetables, and took the covers off in

such a bouncing manner that I was afraid I must have given him some

offence. But he greatly relieved my mind by putting a chair for me at

the table, and saying, very affably, ‘Now, six-foot! come on!’

I thanked him, and took my seat at the board; but found it extremely

difficult to handle my knife and fork with anything like dexterity,

or to avoid splashing myself with the gravy, while he was standing

opposite, staring so hard, and making me blush in the most dreadful

manner every time I caught his eye. After watching me into the second

chop, he said:

‘There’s half a pint of ale for you. Will you have it now?’

I thanked him and said, ‘Yes.’ Upon which he poured it out of a jug

into a large tumbler, and held it up against the light, and made it look

beautiful.

‘My eye!’ he said. ‘It seems a good deal, don’t it?’

‘It does seem a good deal,’ I answered with a smile. For it was quite

delightful to me, to find him so pleasant. He was a twinkling-eyed,

pimple-faced man, with his hair standing upright all over his head; and

as he stood with one arm a-kimbo, holding up the glass to the light with

the other hand, he looked quite friendly.

‘There was a gentleman here, yesterday,’ he said--‘a stout gentleman, by

the name of Topsawyer--perhaps you know him?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t think--’

‘In breeches and gaiters, broad-brimmed hat, grey coat, speckled

choker,’ said the waiter.

‘No,’ I said bashfully, ‘I haven’t the pleasure--’

‘He came in here,’ said the waiter, looking at the light through the

tumbler, ‘ordered a glass of this ale--WOULD order it--I told him

not--drank it, and fell dead. It was too old for him. It oughtn’t to be

drawn; that’s the fact.’

I was very much shocked to hear of this melancholy accident, and said I

thought I had better have some water.

‘Why you see,’ said the waiter, still looking at the light through the

tumbler, with one of his eyes shut up, ‘our people don’t like things

being ordered and left. It offends ‘em. But I’ll drink it, if you like.

I’m used to it, and use is everything. I don’t think it’ll hurt me, if I

throw my head back, and take it off quick. Shall I?’

I replied that he would much oblige me by drinking it, if he thought

he could do it safely, but by no means otherwise. When he did throw his

head back, and take it off quick, I had a horrible fear, I confess,

of seeing him meet the fate of the lamented Mr. Topsawyer, and fall

lifeless on the carpet. But it didn’t hurt him. On the contrary, I

thought he seemed the fresher for it.

‘What have we got here?’ he said, putting a fork into my dish. ‘Not

chops?’

‘Chops,’ I said.

‘Lord bless my soul!’ he exclaimed, ‘I didn’t know they were chops. Why,

a chop’s the very thing to take off the bad effects of that beer! Ain’t

it lucky?’

So he took a chop by the bone in one hand, and a potato in the other,

and ate away with a very good appetite, to my extreme satisfaction.

He afterwards took another chop, and another potato; and after that,

another chop and another potato. When we had done, he brought me a

pudding, and having set it before me, seemed to ruminate, and to become

absent in his mind for some moments.

‘How’s the pie?’ he said, rousing himself.

‘It’s a pudding,’ I made answer.

‘Pudding!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, bless me, so it is! What!’ looking at it

nearer. ‘You don’t mean to say it’s a batter-pudding!’

‘Yes, it is indeed.’

‘Why, a batter-pudding,’ he said, taking up a table-spoon, ‘is my

favourite pudding! Ain’t that lucky? Come on, little ‘un, and let’s see

who’ll get most.’

The waiter certainly got most. He entreated me more than once to come in

and win, but what with his table-spoon to my tea-spoon, his dispatch to

my dispatch, and his appetite to my appetite, I was left far behind at

the first mouthful, and had no chance with him. I never saw anyone enjoy

a pudding so much, I think; and he laughed, when it was all gone, as if

his enjoyment of it lasted still.

Finding him so very friendly and companionable, it was then that I asked

for the pen and ink and paper, to write to Peggotty. He not only brought

it immediately, but was good enough to look over me while I wrote the

letter. When I had finished it, he asked me where I was going to school.

I said, ‘Near London,’ which was all I knew.

‘Oh! my eye!’ he said, looking very low-spirited, ‘I am sorry for that.’

‘Why?’ I asked him.

‘Oh, Lord!’ he said, shaking his head, ‘that’s the school where they

broke the boy’s ribs--two ribs--a little boy he was. I should say he

was--let me see--how old are you, about?’

I told him between eight and nine.

‘That’s just his age,’ he said. ‘He was eight years and six months old

when they broke his first rib; eight years and eight months old when

they broke his second, and did for him.’

I could not disguise from myself, or from the waiter, that this was an

uncomfortable coincidence, and inquired how it was done. His answer was

not cheering to my spirits, for it consisted of two dismal words, ‘With

whopping.’

The blowing of the coach-horn in the yard was a seasonable diversion,

which made me get up and hesitatingly inquire, in the mingled pride and

diffidence of having a purse (which I took out of my pocket), if there

were anything to pay.

‘There’s a sheet of letter-paper,’ he returned. ‘Did you ever buy a

sheet of letter-paper?’

I could not remember that I ever had.

‘It’s dear,’ he said, ‘on account of the duty. Threepence. That’s

the way we’re taxed in this country. There’s nothing else, except the

waiter. Never mind the ink. I lose by that.’

‘What should you--what should I--how much ought I to--what would it be

right to pay the waiter, if you please?’ I stammered, blushing.

‘If I hadn’t a family, and that family hadn’t the cowpock,’ said the

waiter, ‘I wouldn’t take a sixpence. If I didn’t support a aged pairint,

and a lovely sister,’--here the waiter was greatly agitated--‘I wouldn’t

take a farthing. If I had a good place, and was treated well here, I

should beg acceptance of a trifle, instead of taking of it. But I live

on broken wittles--and I sleep on the coals’--here the waiter burst into

tears.

I was very much concerned for his misfortunes, and felt that any

recognition short of ninepence would be mere brutality and hardness of

heart. Therefore I gave him one of my three bright shillings, which he

received with much humility and veneration, and spun up with his thumb,

directly afterwards, to try the goodness of.

It was a little disconcerting to me, to find, when I was being helped

up behind the coach, that I was supposed to have eaten all the dinner

without any assistance. I discovered this, from overhearing the lady in

the bow-window say to the guard, ‘Take care of that child, George, or

he’ll burst!’ and from observing that the women-servants who were about

the place came out to look and giggle at me as a young phenomenon. My

unfortunate friend the waiter, who had quite recovered his spirits, did

not appear to be disturbed by this, but joined in the general admiration

without being at all confused. If I had any doubt of him, I suppose

this half awakened it; but I am inclined to believe that with the simple

confidence of a child, and the natural reliance of a child upon superior

years (qualities I am very sorry any children should prematurely change

for worldly wisdom), I had no serious mistrust of him on the whole, even