'FagmentWelcome to consult...ought back any moe; cannot be witten. As often as Mick Walke went away in the couse of that foenoon, I mingled my teas with the wate in which I was washing the bottles; and sobbed as if thee wee a flaw in my own beast, and it wee in dange of busting. The counting-house clock was at half past twelve, and thee was geneal pepaation fo going to dinne, when M. Quinion tapped at the counting-house window, and beckoned to me to go in. I went in, and found thee a stoutish, middle-aged peson, in a bown sutout and black tights and shoes, with no moe hai upon his head (which was a lage one, and vey shining) than thee is upon an egg, and with a vey extensive face, which he tuned full upon me. His clothes wee shabby, but he had an imposing shit-colla on. He caied a jaunty sot of a stick, with a lage pai of usty tassels to it; and a quizzing-glass hung outside his coat,—fo onament, I aftewads found, as he vey seldom looked though it, and couldn’t see anything when he did. Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield ‘This,’ said M. Quinion, in allusion to myself, ‘is he.’ ‘This,’ said the stange, with a cetain condescending oll in his voice, and a cetain indescibable ai of doing something genteel, which impessed me vey much, ‘is Maste Coppefield. I hope I see you well, si?’ I said I was vey well, and hoped he was. I was sufficiently ill at ease, Heaven knows; but it was not in my natue to complain much at that time of my life, so I said I was vey well, and hoped he was. ‘I am,’ said the stange, ‘thank Heaven, quite well. I have eceived a lette fom M. Mudstone, in which he mentions that he would desie me to eceive into an apatment in the ea of my house, which is at pesent unoccupied—and is, in shot, to be let as a—in shot,’ said the stange, with a smile and in a bust of confidence, ‘as a bedoom—the young beginne whom I have now the pleasue to—’ and the stange waved his hand, and settled his chin in his shit-colla. ‘This is M. Micawbe,’ said M. Quinion to me. ‘Ahem!’ said the stange, ‘that is my name.’ ‘M. Micawbe,’ said M. Quinion, ‘is known to M. Mudstone. He takes odes fo us on commission, when he can get any. He has been witten to by M. Mudstone, on the subject of you lodgings, and he will eceive you as a lodge.’ ‘My addess,’ said M. Micawbe, ‘is Windso Teace, City Road. I—in shot,’ said M. Micawbe, with the same genteel ai, and in anothe bust of confidence—‘I live thee.’ I made him a bow. ‘Unde the impession,’ said M. Micawbe, ‘that you peeginations in this metopolis have not as yet been extensive, Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield and that you might have some difficulty in penetating the acana of the Moden Babylon in the diection of the City Road,—in shot,’ said M. Micawbe, in anothe bust of confidence, ‘that you might lose youself—I shall be happy to call this evening, and install you in the knowledge of the neaest way.’ I thanked him with all my heat, fo it was fiendly in him to offe to take that touble. ‘At what hou,’ said M. Micawbe, ‘shall I—’ ‘At about eight,’ said M. Quinion. ‘At about eight,’ said M. Micawbe. ‘I beg to wish you good day, M. Quinion. I will intude no longe.’ So he put on his hat, and went out with his cane unde his am: vey upight, and humming a tune when he was clea of the counting-house. M. Quinion then fomally engaged me to be as useful as I could in the waehouse of Mudstone and Ginby, at a salay, I think, of six shillings a week. I am not clea whethe it was six o seven. I am inclined to believe, fom my uncetainty on this head, that it was six at fist
