Accordingly, Miss Murdstone packed me off without loss of time; and I went to work—at ten years old—washing bottles in a vile-smelling warehouse down by the water-side.
There were three or four of us boys, counting me; and I was shown how to work by an older lad whose name was Mick Walker, and who wore a ragged apron and paper cap. He introduced me to another boy by the queer name of Mealy Potatoes. I discovered, later, that this youth had started out with another name, but had been given this one on account of a pale, mealy complexion.
No words can express the secret agony of my soul as I sank into this companionship; compared these associates with those of my happier childhood—not to say with Steerforth, Traddles, and the rest of those boys; and felt my hopes of growing up to be a learned and distinguished man crushed in my bosom. The feeling of being utterly without hope; of the shame I felt in my position; of the misery it was to believe that what I had learned would pass away from me, little by little, never to be brought back any more; cannot be written. As often as Mick Walker went away in the course of that forenoon, I mingled my tears with the water in which I was washing the bottles. But I was careful never to let the others see me in tears.
I was given the splendid salary of seven shillings[#] a week for my services, and out of that I had to feed and clothe myself. My lodgings were provided for, at the home of a Mr. Micawber, a portly, dignified man with a large, shiny bald head and rusty, genteel clothes. Mr. Micawber was perpetually dodging creditors while he waited for "something to turn up," as he expressed it. But in his way he was kind to me.
[#] About $1.68.
Still I had no one upon earth to go to for friendship or advice, I must needs skimp and save to be sure of having enough bread and cheese to eat; and no one lifted a finger to help me, a frightened little stranger in a large, terrifying city. I look back upon it now as a horrible dream. I know that I worked from morning till night with common men and boys, a shabby child. I know that I lounged about the streets poorly clothed and half starved. I know that but for the mercy of God, I might easily have been—for any other care that was taken of me—a little thief or vagabond.
But in these darkest days a bright idea came to me—I don't know when or how, but come it did, and refused to depart. I remembered having heard of an aunt, Miss Betsey Trotwood, my dear father's sister. I had heard both my mother and Peggotty speak of her, with some awe, it is true, as being a rather eccentric woman, who did not like boys, but still I resolved to find her. So I wrote to Peggotty and asked the address, and also for the loan of half a guinea. I had resolved to run away and appeal to my aunt for protection.
Peggotty's answer soon came with much love and the half guinea. She told me that Miss Betsey lived near Dover, but she couldn't say exactly where. This was vague enough, but didn't deter me in the slightest. I worked my week out at the warehouse, and, bidding Mick Walker and Mealy Potatoes good-bye, ran away forthwith. I may have had the notion of running all the way to Dover when I started. I had a small box of clothes and the half guinea, but a carter robbed me of both of them the first day. So, reduced to a few odd pence, I made but slow progress on foot, and sleeping out in the open by night.
For six days I trudged my weary way, pawning my coat for food, and not daring to ask aid from any one, for fear of being seized and sent back to London. But at last I limped in upon the bare white downs near Dover, sunburnt and in rags.
By dint of inquiries I was directed to Miss Betsey Trotwood's house, and I lost no time in going there—a sorry enough figure, as you may imagine. It was a neat little cottage looking out from some cliffs upon the sea.