‘Oh, I don’t mean him!’ I returned. ‘I mean the gentleman named Traddles.’
‘Oh! Aye, aye! Indeed!’ said my host, with much diminished interest. ‘Possibly.’
‘If it’s really the same person,’ said I, glancing towards him, ‘it was at a place called Salem House where we were together, and he was an excellent fellow.’
‘Oh yes. Traddles is a good fellow,’ returned my host nodding his head with an air of toleration. ‘Traddles is quite a good fellow.’
‘It’s a curious coincidence,’ said I.
‘It is really,’ returned my host, ‘quite a coincidence, that Traddles should be here at all: as Traddles was only invited this morning, when the place at table, intended to be occupied by Mrs. Henry Spiker’s brother, became vacant, in consequence of his indisposition. A very gentlemanly man, Mrs. Henry Spiker’s brother, Mr. Copperfield.’
I murmured an assent, which was full of feeling, considering that I knew nothing at all about him; and I inquired what Mr. Traddles was by profession.
‘Traddles,’ returned Mr. Waterbrook, ‘is a young man reading for the bar. Yes. He is quite a good fellow—nobody’s enemy but his own.’
‘Is he his own enemy?’ said I, sorry to hear this.
‘Well,’ returned Mr. Waterbrook, pursing up his mouth, and playing with his watch-chain, in a comfortable, prosperous sort of way. ‘I should say he was one of those men who stand in their own light. Yes, I should say he would never, for example, be worth five hundred pound. Traddles was recommended to me by a professional friend. Oh yes. Yes. He has a kind of talent for drawing briefs, and stating a case in writing, plainly. I am able to throw something in Traddles’s way, in the course of the year; something—for him—considerable. Oh yes. Yes.’