David Copperfield, Charles Dickens [best historical fiction books of all time TXT] 📗

Punch, when he’s a good ’un, is worth his weight in gold. Did you ever breed any Suffolk Punches yourself, sir?”

“N-no,” I said, “not exactly.”

“Here’s a gen’lm’n behind me, I’ll pound it,” said William, “as has bred ’em by wholesale.”

The gentleman spoken of was a gentleman with a very unpromising squint, and a prominent chin, who had a tall white hat on with a narrow flat brim, and whose close-fitting drab trousers seemed to button all the way up outside his legs from his boots to his hips. His chin was cocked over the coachman’s shoulder, so near to me, that his breath quite tickled the back of my head; and as I looked at him, he leered at the leaders with the eye with which he didn’t squint, in a very knowing manner.

“Ain’t you?” asked William.

“Ain’t I what?” said the gentleman behind.

“Bred them Suffolk Punches by wholesale?”

“I should think so,” said the gentleman. “There ain’t no sort of orse that I ain’t bred, and no sort of dorg. Orses and dorgs is some men’s fancy. They’re wittles and drink to me⁠—lodging, wife, and children⁠—reading, writing, and Arithmetic⁠—snuff, tobacker, and sleep.”

“That ain’t a sort of man to see sitting behind a coach-box, is it though?” said William in my ear, as he handled the reins.

I construed this remark into an indication of a wish that he should have my place, so I blushingly offered to resign it.

“Well, if you don’t mind, sir,” said William, “I think it would be more correct.”

I have always considered this as the first fall I had in life. When I booked my place at the coach office I had had “Box Seat” written against the entry, and had given the bookkeeper half-a-crown. I was got up in a special greatcoat and shawl, expressly to do honour to that distinguished eminence; had glorified myself upon it a good deal; and had felt that I was a credit to the coach. And here, in the very first stage, I was supplanted by a shabby man with a squint, who had no other merit than smelling like a livery-stables, and being able to walk across me, more like a fly than a human being, while the horses were at a canter!

A distrust of myself, which has often beset me in life on small occasions, when it would have been better away, was assuredly not stopped in its growth by this little incident outside the Canterbury coach. It was in vain to take refuge in gruffness of speech. I spoke from the pit of my stomach for the rest of the journey, but I felt completely extinguished, and dreadfully young.

It was curious and interesting, nevertheless, to be sitting up there behind four horses: well educated, well dressed, and with plenty of money in my pocket; and to look out for the places where I had slept on my weary journey. I had abundant occupation for my thoughts, in every conspicuous landmark on the road. When I looked down at the trampers whom we passed, and saw that well-remembered style of face turned up, I felt as if the tinker’s blackened hand were in the bosom of my shirt again. When we clattered through the narrow street of Chatham, and I caught a glimpse, in passing, of the lane where the old monster lived who had bought my jacket, I stretched my neck eagerly to look for the place where I had sat, in the sun and in the shade, waiting for my money. When we came, at last, within a stage of London, and passed the veritable Salem House where Mr. Creakle had laid about him with a heavy hand, I would have given all I had, for lawful permission to get down and thrash him, and let all the boys out like so many caged sparrows.

We went to the Golden Cross at Charing Cross, then a mouldy sort of establishment in a close neighbourhood. A waiter showed me into the coffee room; and a chambermaid introduced me to my small bedchamber, which smelt like a hackney-coach, and was shut up like a family vault. I was still painfully conscious of my youth, for nobody stood in any awe of me at all: the chambermaid being utterly indifferent to my opinions on any subject, and the waiter being familiar with me, and offering advice to my inexperience.

“Well now,” said the waiter, in a tone of confidence, “what would you like for dinner? Young gentlemen likes poultry in general: have a fowl!”

I told him, as majestically as I could, that I wasn’t in the humour for a fowl.

“Ain’t you?” said the waiter. “Young gentlemen is generally tired of beef and mutton: have a weal cutlet!”

I assented to this proposal, in default of being able to suggest anything else.

“Do you care for taters?” said the waiter, with an insinuating smile, and his head on one side. “Young gentlemen generally has been overdosed with taters.”

I commanded him, in my deepest voice, to order a veal cutlet and potatoes, and all things fitting; and to inquire at the bar if there were any letters for Trotwood Copperfield, Esquire⁠—which I knew there were not, and couldn’t be, but thought it manly to appear to expect.

He soon came back to say that there were none (at which I was much surprised) and began to lay the cloth for my dinner in a box by the fire. While he was so engaged, he asked me what I would take with it; and on my replying “Half a pint of sherry,” thought it a favourable opportunity, I am afraid, to extract that measure of wine from the stale leavings at the bottoms of several small decanters. I am of this opinion, because, while I was reading the newspaper, I observed him behind a low wooden partition, which was his private apartment, very busy pouring out of a number of those vessels into one, like a chemist and druggist making up a prescription. When the wine came, too, I