Chapter Twenty Seven.
A good fare—Eat your pudding and hold your tongue—The Dominie crossed in love—The crosser also crossed—I find that “all the world’s a stage,” not excepting the stern sheets of my wherry—Cleopatra’s barge apostrophised on the River Thames.
I consider that the present was the period from which I might date my first launching into human life. I was now nearly eighteen years old, strong, active, and well-made, full of spirits, and overjoyed at the independence which I had so much sighed for. Since the period of my dismissal from Mr Drummond’s my character had much altered. I had become grave and silent, brooding over my wrongs, harbouring feelings of resentment against the parties, and viewing the world in general through a medium by no means favourable. I had become in some degree restored from this unwholesome state of mind from having rendered an important service to Captain Turnbull, for we love the world better as we feel that we are more useful in it; but the independence now given to me was the acme of my hopes and wishes. I felt so happy, so buoyant in mind, that I could even think of the two clerks in Mr Drummond’s employ without feelings of revenge. Let it, however, be remembered that the world was all before me in anticipation only.
“Boat, sir?”
“No, thanky, my lad. I want old Stapleton—is he here?”
“No, sir, but this is his boat.”
“Humph, can’t he take me down?”
“No, sir; but I can, if you please.”
“Well, then, be quick.”