“‘Turn again Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, and when you are old you will never depart from it,’” interposed the Captain. “Wal”r! Overhaul the book, my lad.”
“And although Mr Dombey hasn’t a daughter,” Sol began.
“Yes, yes, he has, Uncle,” said the boy, reddening and laughing.
“Has he?” cried the old man. “Indeed I think he has too.”
“Oh! I know he has,” said the boy. “Some of ’em were talking about it in the office today. And they do say, Uncle and Captain Cuttle,” lowering his voice, “that he’s taken a dislike to her, and that she’s left, unnoticed, among the servants, and that his mind’s so set all the while upon having his son in the House, that although he’s only a baby now, he is going to have balances struck oftener than formerly, and the books kept closer than they used to be, and has even been seen (when he thought he wasn’t) walking in the Docks, looking at his ships and property and all that, as if he was exulting like, over what he and his son will possess together. That’s what they say. Of course, I don’t know.”
“He knows all about her already, you see,” said the instrument-maker.
“Nonsense, Uncle,” cried the boy, still reddening and laughing, boy-like. “How can I help hearing what they tell me?”
“The son’s a little in our way at present, I’m afraid, Ned,” said the old man, humouring the joke.
“Very much,” said the Captain.
“Nevertheless, we’ll drink him,” pursued Sol. “So, here’s to Dombey and Son.”