LITMIR.BIZ

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xlink:href="#n_92" type="note">[92] and he had written after it on his card, “just out of Smithfield.[93] We stopped in a gloomy street, at certain offices with an open door, where was painted MR. JAGGERS.

      “How much?” I asked the coachman.

      The coachman answered, “A shilling – unless you wish to make it more.”

      I naturally said I had no wish to make it more.

      “Then it must be a shilling,” observed the coachman. I went into the front office with my little bag in my hand and asked, Was Mr. Jaggers at home?

      “He is not,” returned the clerk. “He is in Court at present. Am I addressing Mr. Pip?”

      I signified that he was addressing Mr. Pip.

      “Mr. Jaggers left word, would you wait in his room.”

      Mr. Jaggers’s room was lighted by a skylight only, and was a most dismal place. There were not so many papers about, as I should have expected to see; and there were some odd objects about, that I should not have expected to see – such as an old rusty pistol, a sword, several strange-looking boxes and packages.

      I sat down in the chair placed over against Mr. Jaggers’s chair, and became fascinated by the dismal atmosphere of the place. But I sat wondering and waiting in Mr. Jaggers’s close room, and got up and went out.

      At length, as I was looking out at the Little Britain, I saw Mr. Jaggers coming across the road towards me.

      My guardian then took me into his own room, and while he lunched, informed me what arrangements he had made for me. I was to go to “Barnard’s Inn,[94]” to young Mr. Pocket’s rooms, where a bed had been sent in for my accommodation. “You will find your credit good, Mr. Pip,” said my guardian, but I shall by this means be able to check your bills.”

      I asked Mr. Jaggers if I could send for a coach? He said it was not worth while, I was so near my destination; Wemmick[95] should walk round with me.

      Chapter 21

      Mr. Wemmick was a dry man, rather short in stature, with a square wooden face.

      “So you were never in London before?” said Mr. Wemmick to me.

      “No,” said I.

      “I was new here once,” said Mr. Wemmick.

      “You are well acquainted with it now?”

      “Why, yes,” said Mr. Wemmick.

      “Is it a very wicked place?” I asked, more for the sake[96] of saying something than for information.

      “You may get cheated, robbed, and murdered in London. But there are plenty of people anywhere, who’ll do that for you.”

      His mouth was such a post-office of a mouth that he had a mechanical appearance of smiling.

      “Do you know where Mr. Matthew Pocket lives?” I asked Mr. Wemmick.

      “Yes,” said he, nodding in the direction. “At Hammersmith,[97] west of London.”

      “Is that far?”

      “Well! Say five miles.”

      “Do you know him?”

      “Yes, I know him. I know him!”

      Barnard’s Inn. I had supposed that establishment to be an hotel kept by Mr. Barnard. I found Barnard to be a disembodied spirit, or a fiction, and his inn the dingiest collection of shabby buildings ever squeezed together.

      I looked in dismay at Mr. Wemmick. “Ah!” said he; “the retirement reminds you of the country.”

      He led me into a corner and conducted me up a flight of stairs – to a set of chambers on the top floor. MR. POCKET, JUN., was painted on the door, and there was a label on the letter-box, “Return shortly.[98]”

      “You don’t want me any more?” asked Mr. Wemmick.

      “No, thank you,” said I.

      “As I keep the cash,” Mr. Wemmick observed, “we shall most likely meet pretty often. Good day.”

      “Good day.”

      I put out my hand, and Mr. Wemmick at first looked at it as if he thought I wanted something. Then he looked at me, and said, correcting himself —

      “To be sure! Yes. You’re in the habit of shaking hands?”

      I was rather confused, thinking it must be out of the London fashion, but said yes.

      When we had shaken hands and he was gone, I opened the staircase window. Mr. Pocket, Junior, returned in half an hour. He had a paper-bag under each arm and some strawberries in one hand, and was out of breath.

      “Mr. Pip?” said he.

      “Mr. Pocket?” said I.

      “Dear me!” he exclaimed. “I am extremely sorry. The fact is, I have been out on your account – for I thought, coming from the country, you might like a little fruit after dinner, and I went to Covent Garden Market[99] to get it good. Pray come in, allow me to lead the way. We might like to take a walk about London. I am sure I shall be very happy to show London to you. As to our table, you won’t find that bad, I hope, for it will be supplied from our coffee-house here,[100] and at your expense,[101] such being Mr. Jaggers’s directions. As to our lodging, it’s not by any means splendid, because I have my own bread to earn, and my father hasn’t anything to give me, and I shouldn’t be willing to take it, if he had. This is our sitting-room – just such chairs and tables and carpet and so forth, you see. This is your bedroom; the furniture’s hired for the occasion, but I trust it will answer the purpose; if you should want anything, I’ll go and fetch it. The chambers are retired, and we shall be alone together, but we shan’t fight, I dare say. But, I beg your pardon, you’re holding the fruit all this time. Pray let me take these bags from you. I am quite ashamed.”

      Suddenly Mr. Pocket, Junior, said, falling back —

      “Lord bless me, you’re the prowling boy!”

      “And you,” said I, “are the pale young gentleman!”

      Chapter 22

      The pale young gentleman and I stood contemplating one another in Barnard’s Inn, until we both burst out laughing.

      “Well!” said the pale young gentleman, reaching out his hand good-humoredly, “it’s all over now, I hope you’ll forgive me.”

      I derived from this speech that Mr. Herbert Pocket[102] (for Herbert was the pale young gentleman’s name) did

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