I again warmly repeated that it was a bad side of human nature (in

which sentiment, waiving its application, I have since seen reason

to think I was right), and I walked down the little path away from

Biddy, and Biddy went into the house, and I went out at the garden

gate and took a dejected stroll until supper-time; again feeling it

very sorrowful and strange that this, the second night of my bright

fortunes, should be as lonely and unsatisfactory as the first.

But, morning once more brightened my view, and I extended my

clemency to Biddy, and we dropped the subject. Putting on the best

clothes I had, I went into town as early as I could hope to find

the shops open, and presented myself before Mr. Trabb, the tailor:

who was having his breakfast in the parlour behind his shop, and

who did not think it worth his while to come out to me, but called

me in to him.

"Well!" said Mr. Trabb, in a hail-fellow-well-met kind of way. "How

are you, and what can I do for you?"

Mr. Trabb had sliced his hot roll into three feather beds, and was

slipping butter in between the blankets, and covering it up. He was

a prosperous old bachelor, and his open window looked into a

prosperous little garden and orchard, and there was a prosperous

iron safe let into the wall at the side of his fireplace, and I did

not doubt that heaps of his prosperity were put away in it in bags.

"Mr. Trabb," said I, "it's an unpleasant thing to have to mention,

because it looks like boasting; but I have come into a handsome

property."

A change passed over Mr. Trabb. He forgot the butter in bed, got up

from the bedside, and wiped his fingers on the table-cloth,

exclaiming, "Lord bless my soul!"

"I am going up to my guardian in London," said I, casually drawing

some guineas out of my pocket and looking at them; "and I want a

fashionable suit of clothes to go in. I wish to pay for them," I

added - otherwise I thought he might only pretend to make them -

"with ready money."

"My dear sir," said Mr. Trabb, as he respectfully bent his body,

opened his arms, and took the liberty of touching me on the outside

of each elbow, "don't hurt me by mentioning that. May I venture to

congratulate you? Would you do me the favour of stepping into the

shop?"

Mr. Trabb's boy was the most audacious boy in all that countryside.

When I had entered he was sweeping the shop, and he had sweetened

his labours by sweeping over me. He was still sweeping when I came

out into the shop with Mr. Trabb, and he knocked the broom against

all possible corners and obstacles, to express (as I understood it)

equality with any blacksmith, alive or dead.

"Hold that noise," said Mr. Trabb, with the greatest sternness, "or

I'll knock your head off! Do me the favour to be seated, sir. Now,

this," said Mr. Trabb, taking down a roll of cloth, and tiding it

out in a flowing manner over the counter, preparatory to getting

his hand under it to show the gloss, "is a very sweet article. I

can recommend it for your purpose, sir, because it really is extra

super. But you shall see some others. Give me Number Four, you!"

(To the boy, and with a dreadfully severe stare: foreseeing the

danger of that miscreant's brushing me with it, or making some

other sign of familiarity.)

Mr. Trabb never removed his stern eye from the boy until he had

deposited number four on the counter and was at a safe distance

again. Then, he commanded him to bring number five, and number

eight. "And let me have none of your tricks here," said Mr. Trabb,

"or you shall repent it, you young scoundrel, the longest day you

have to live."

Mr. Trabb then bent over number four, and in a sort of deferential

confidence recommended it to me as a light article for summer wear,

an article much in vogue among the nobility and gentry, an article

that it would ever be an honour to him to reflect upon a

distinguished fellow-townsman's (if he might claim me for a

fellow-townsman) having worn.