head-dress, in the Lord Mayor’s Show. He also informed me that
our principal associate would be another boy whom he introduced
by the—to me—extraordinary name of Mealy Potatoes. I
discovered, however, that this youth had not been christened by
that name, but that it had been bestowed upon him in the
warehouse, on account of his complexion, which was pale or
mealy. Mealy’s father was a waterman, who had the additional
distinction of being a fireman, and was engaged as such at one of
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David Copperfield
the large theatres; where some young relation of Mealy’s—I think
his little sister—did Imps in the Pantomimes.
No words can express the secret agony of my soul as I sunk into
this companionship; compared these henceforth everyday
associates with those of my happier childhood—not to say with
Steerforth, Traddles, and the rest of those boys; and felt my hopes
of growing up to be a learned and distinguished man, crushed in
my bosom. The deep remembrance of the sense I had, of being
utterly without hope now; of the shame I felt in my position; of the
misery it was to my young heart to believe that day by day what I
had learned, and thought, and delighted in, and raised my fancy
and my emulation up by, would pass away from me, little by little,
never to be brought back any more; cannot be written. As often as
Mick Walker went away in the course of that forenoon, I mingled
my tears with the water in which I was washing the bottles; and
sobbed as if there were a flaw in my own breast, and it were in
danger of bursting.
The counting-house clock was at half past twelve, and there
was general preparation for going to dinner, when Mr. Quinion
tapped at the counting-house window, and beckoned to me to go
in. I went in, and found there a stoutish, middle-aged person, in a
brown surtout and black tights and shoes, with no more hair upon
his head (which was a large one, and very shining) than there is
upon an egg, and with a very extensive face, which he turned full
upon me. His clothes were shabby, but he had an imposing shirt-
collar on. He carried a jaunty sort of a stick, with a large pair of
rusty tassels to it; and a quizzing-glass hung outside his coat,—for
ornament, I afterwards found, as he very seldom looked through
it, and couldn’t see anything when he did.
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David Copperfield
‘This,’ said Mr. Quinion, in allusion to myself, ‘is he.’
‘This,’ said the stranger, with a certain condescending roll in his
voice, and a certain indescribable air of doing something genteel,
which impressed me very much, ‘is Master Copperfield. I hope I
see you well, sir?’
I said I was very well, and hoped he was. I was sufficiently ill at
ease, Heaven knows; but it was not in my nature to complain
much at that time of my life, so I said I was very well, and hoped
he was.
‘I am,’ said the stranger, ‘thank Heaven, quite well. I have
received a letter from Mr. Murdstone, in which he mentions that
he would desire me to receive into an apartment in the rear of my
house, which is at present unoccupied—and is, in short, to be let
as a—in short,’ said the stranger, with a smile and in a burst of
confidence, ‘as a bedroom—the young beginner whom I have now
the pleasure to—’ and the stranger waved his hand, and settled his
chin in his shirt-collar.
‘This is Mr. Micawber,’ said Mr. Quinion to me.
‘Ahem!’ said the stranger, ‘that is my name.’
‘Mr. Micawber,’ said Mr. Quinion, ‘is known to Mr. Murdstone.
He takes orders for us on commission, when he can get any. He
has been written to by Mr. Murdstone, on the s"};
