stock in trade, and good will were all the property of our ancient antagonist. But although Mr Pleggit could shake hands with Mr Cophagus for his fixtures and good will, yet as Timothy and I were not included in the good will, neither were we included among the fixtures, and Mr Cophagus could not, of course, interfere with Mr Pleggit’s private arrangements. He did all he could do in the way of recommendation; but Mr Pleggit had not forgotten my occasional impertinences or the battle of the bottles. I really believe that his ill-will against Timothy was one reason for purchasing the good will of Mr Cophagus; and we were very gently told by Mr Pleggit that he would have no occasion for our services.
Mr Cophagus offered to procure me another situation as soon as he could, and at the same time presented me with twenty guineas, as a proof of his regard and appreciation of my conduct—but this sum put in my hand decided me: I thanked him, and told him I had other views at present, but hoped he would let me know where I might find him hereafter, as I should be glad to see him again. He told me he would leave his address for me at the Foundling Hospital, and shaking me heartily by the hand, we parted. Timothy was then summoned. Mr Cophagus gave him five guineas, and wished him good fortune.
“And now, Japhet, what are you about to do?” said Timothy, as he descended into the shop.
“To do,” replied I; “I am about to leave you, which is the only thing I am sorry for. I am going, Timothy, in search of my father.”
“Well,” replied Timothy, “I feel as you do, Japhet, that it will be hard to part; and there is another thing on my mind—which is, I am very sorry that the bull did not break the rudimans (pointing to the iron mortar and pestle); had he had but half the spite I have against it, he would not have left a piece as big as a thimble. I’ve a great mind to have a smack at it before I go.”
“You will only injure Mr Cophagus, for the mortar will not then be paid for.”
“Very true; and as he has just given me five guineas, I will refrain from my just indignation. But now, Japhet, let me speak to you. I don’t know how you feel, but I feel as if I could not part with you. I do not want to go in search of my father particularly. They say it’s a wise child that knows its own father—but as there can be no doubt of my other parent—if I can only hit upon her, I have a strong inclination to go in search of my mother, and if you like my company, why I will go with you—always, my dear Japhet,” continued Tim, “keeping in my mind the great difference between a person who has been fee’d as an M.D., and a lad who only carries out his prescriptions.”
“Do you really mean to say, Tim, that you will go with me?”
“Yes, to the end of the world, Japhet, as your companion, your friend, and your servant, if you require it I love you, Japhet, and I will serve you faithfully.”
“My dear Tim, I am delighted; now I am really happy: we will have but one purse, and but one interest; if I find good fortune, you shall share it.”
“And if you meet with ill luck, I will share that too—so the affair is settled—and as here comes Mr Pleggit’s assistants with only one pair of eyes between them, the sooner we pack up the better.”
In half an hour all was ready; a bundle each, contained our wardrobes. We descended from our attic, walked proudly through the shop without making any observation, or taking any notice of our successors; all the notice taken was by Timothy, who turned round and shook his fist at his old enemies, the iron mortar and pestle; and there we were, standing on the pavement, with the wide world before us, and quite undecided which way we should go.
“Is it to be east, west, north, or south, Japhet?” said Timothy.
“The wise men came from the east,” replied I.
“Then they must have travelled west,” said Tim; “let us show our wisdom by doing the same.”
“Agreed.”
Passing by a small shop we purchased two good sticks, as defenders, as well as to hang our bundles on—and off we set upon our pilgrimage.
Part 1—Chapter VIII
We take a Coach, but the Driver does not like his Fare and hits us foul—We change our Mode of travelling, upon the Principle of slow and sure, and fall in with a very learned man.
I believe it to be a very general custom, when people set off upon a journey to reckon up their means—that is, to count the money which they may have in their pockets. At all events, this was done by Timothy and me, and I found that my stock amounted to twenty-two pounds eighteen shillings, and Timothy’s to the five guineas presented by Mr Cophagus, and three halfpence which were in the corner of his waistcoat pocket—sum total, twenty-eight pounds three shillings and three halfpence; a very handsome sum, as we thought, with which to commence our peregrinations, and, as I observed to Timothy, sufficient to last us for a considerable time, if husbanded with care.
“Yes,” replied he, “but we must husband our legs also, Japhet, or we shall soon be tired, and very soon wear out our shoes. I vote we take a hackney-coach.”
“Take a hackney-coach, Tim! we mustn’t think of it; we cannot afford such a luxury; you can’t be tired yet, we are now only just clear of Hyde Park Corner.”
“Still I think we had better take a coach, Japhet, and here is one coming. I always do take one when I carry out medicines, to make up for the time I lose looking at the shops, and playing peg in the ring.”
I now understood what Timothy meant, which was, to get behind and have a ride for nothing. I consented to this arrangement, and we got up behind one which was already well filled inside. “The only difference between an inside and outside passenger in a hackney-coach is, that, one pays, and the other does not,” said I, to Timothy, as we rolled along at the act of parliament speed of four miles per hour.
“That depends upon circumstances: if we are found out, in all probability we shall not only have our ride, but be paid into the bargain.”
“With the coachman’s whip, I presume?”
“Exactly.” And Timothy had hardly time to get the word out of his mouth, when flac, flac, came the whip across our eyes—a little envious wretch, with his shirt hanging out of his trowsers, having called out Cut behind! Not wishing to have our faces, or our behinds cut any more, we hastily descended, and reached the footpath, after having gained about three miles on the road before we were discovered.
“That wasn’t a bad lift, Japhet, and as for the whip I never mind that with corduroys. And now, Japhet, I’ll tell you something; we must get into a waggon, if we can find one going down the road, as soon as it is dark.”
“But that will cost money, Tim.”
“It’s economy, I tell you; for a shilling, if you bargain, you may ride the whole night, and if we stop at a public-house to sleep, we shall have to pay for our beds, as well as be obliged to order something to eat, and pay dearer for it than if we buy what we want at cooks’ shops.”
“There is sense in what you say, Timothy; we will look out for a waggon.”
“Oh! it’s no use now—waggons are like black beetles, not only in shape but in habits, they only travel by night—at least most of them do. We are now coming into long dirty Brentford, and I don’t know how you feel, Japhet, but I find that walking wonderfully increases the appetite—that’s another reason why you should not walk when you can ride—for nothing.”
“Well,
