prompt:
Chapter: We might have gone about half a mile, and my pocket-handkerchief was
quite wet through, when the carrier stopped short. Looking out to
ascertain for what, I saw, to My amazement, Peggotty burst from a hedge
and climb into the cart. She took me in both her arms, and squeezed me
to her stays until the pressure on my nose was extremely painful, though
I never thought of that till afterwards when I found it very tender. Not
a single word did Peggotty speak. Releasing one of her arms, she put
it down in her pocket to the elbow, and brought out some paper bags of
cakes which she crammed into my pockets, and a purse which she put into
my hand, but not one word did she say. After another and a final squeeze
with both arms, she got down from the cart and ran away; and, my belief
is, and has always been, without a solitary button on her gown. I
picked up one, of several that were rolling about, and treasured it as a
keepsake for a long time.

The carrier looked at me, as if to inquire if she were coming back. I
shook my head, and said I thought not. 'Then come up,' said the carrier
to the lazy horse; who came up accordingly.

Having by this time cried as much as I possibly could, I began to think
it was of no use crying any more, especially as neither Roderick Random,
nor that Captain in the Royal British Navy, had ever cried, that I
could remember, in trying situations. The carrier, seeing me in this
resolution, proposed that my pocket-handkerchief should be spread upon
the horse's back to dry. I thanked him, and assented; and particularly
small it looked, under those circumstances.

I had now leisure to examine the purse. It was a stiff leather purse,
with a snap, and had three bright shillings in it, which Peggotty had
evidently polished up with whitening, for my greater delight. But its
most precious contents were two half-crowns folded together in a bit
of paper, on which was written, in my mother's hand, 'For Davy. With my
love.' I was so overcome by this, that I asked the carrier to be so good
as to reach me my pocket-handkerchief again; but he said he thought I
had better do without it, and I thought I really had, so I wiped my eyes
on my sleeve and stopped myself.

For good, too; though, in consequence of my previous emotions, I was
still occasionally seized with a stormy sob. After we had jogged on for
some little time, I asked the carrier if he was going all the way.

'All the way where?' inquired the carrier.

'There,' I said.

'Where's there?' inquired the carrier.

'Near London,' I said.

'Why that horse,' said the carrier, jerking the rein to point him out,
'would be deader than pork afore he got over half the ground.'

'Are you only going to Yarmouth then?' I asked.

'That's about it,' said the carrier. 'And there I shall take you to the
stage-cutch, and the stage-cutch that'll take you to--wherever it is.'

As this was a great deal for the carrier (whose name was Mr. Barkis)
to say--he being, as I observed in a former chapter, of a phlegmatic
temperament, and not at all conversational--I offered him a cake as a
mark of attention, which he ate at one gulp, exactly like an elephant,
and which made no more impression on his big face than it would have
done on an elephant's.

'Did SHE make 'em, now?' said Mr. Barkis, always leaning forward, in his
slouching way, on the footboard of the cart with an arm on each knee.

'Peggotty, do you mean, sir?'

'Ah!' said Mr. Barkis. 'Her.'

'Yes. She makes all our pastry, and does all our cooking.'

'Do she though?' said Mr. Barkis. He made up his mouth as if to whistle,
but he didn't whistle. He sat looking at the horse's ears, as if he saw
something new there; and sat so, for a considerable time. By and by, he
said:

'No sweethearts, I b'lieve?'

'Sweetmeats did you say, Mr. Barkis?' For I thought he wanted
something else to eat, and had pointedly alluded to that description of
refreshment.

'Hearts,' said Mr. Barkis. 'Sweet hearts; no person walks with her!'

'With Peggotty?'

'Ah!' he said. 'Her.'

'Oh, no. She never had a sweetheart.'

'Didn't she, though!' said Mr. Barkis.

Again he made up his mouth to whistle, and again he didn't whistle, but
sat looking at the horse's ears.

'So she makes,' said Mr. Barkis, after a long interval of reflection,
'all the apple parsties, and doos all the cooking, do she?'

I replied that such was the fact.

'Well. I'll tell you what,' said Mr. Barkis. 'P'raps you might be
writin' to her?'

'I shall certainly write to her,' I rejoined.

'Ah!' he said, slowly turning his eyes towards me. 'Well! If you was
writin' to her, p'raps you'd recollect to say that Barkis was willin';
would you?'

'That Barkis is willing,' I repeated, innocently. 'Is that all the
message?'

'Ye-es,' he said, considering. 'Ye-es. Barkis is willin'.'

'But you will be at Blunderstone again tomorrow, Mr. Barkis,' I said,
faltering a little at the idea of my being far away from it then, and
could give your own message so much better.'

As he repudiated this suggestion, however, with a jerk of his head,
and once more confirmed his previous request by saying, with profound
gravity, 'Barkis is willin'. That's the message,' I readily undertook
its transmission. While I was waiting for the coach in the hotel
at Yarmouth that very afternoon, I procured a sheet of paper and
an inkstand, and wrote a note to Peggotty, which ran thus: 'My dear
Peggotty. I have come here safe. Barkis is willing. My love to mama.
Yours affectionately. P.S. He says he particularly wants you to
know--BARKIS IS WILLING.'

When I had taken this commission on myself prospectively, Mr. Barkis
relapsed into perfect silence; and I, feeling quite worn out by all that
had happened lately, lay down on a sack in the cart and fell asleep. I
slept soundly until we got to Yarmouth; which was so entirely new
and strange to me in the inn-yard to which we drove, that I at once
abandoned a latent hope I had had of meeting with some of Mr. Peggotty's
family there, perhaps even with little Em'ly herself.

The coach was in the yard, shining very much all over, but without any
horses to it as yet; and it looked in that state as if nothing was
more unlikely than its ever going to London. I was thinking this, and
wondering what would ultimately become of my box, which Mr. Barkis had
put down on the yard-pavement by the pole (he having driven up the yard
to turn his cart), and also what would ultimately become of me, when a
lady looked out of a bow-window where some fowls and joints of meat were
hanging up, and said:

'Is that the little gentleman from Blunderstone?'

'Yes, ma'am,' I said.

'What name?' inquired the lady.

'Copperfield, ma'am,' I said.

'That won't do,' returned the lady. 'Nobody's dinner is paid for here,
in that name.'

'Is it Murdstone, ma'am?' I said.

'If you're Master Murdstone,' said the lady, 'why do you go and give
another name, first?'

I explained to the lady how it was, who than rang a bell, and called
out, 'William! show the coffee-room!' upon which a waiter came running
out of a kitchen on the opposite side of the yard to show it, and seemed
a good deal surprised when he was only to show it to me.

It was a large long room with some large maps in it. I doubt if I could
have felt much stranger if the maps had been real foreign countries, and
I cast away in the middle of them. I felt it was taking a liberty to
sit down, with my cap in my hand, on the corner of the chair nearest the
door; and when the waiter laid a cloth on purpose for me, and put a set
of castors on it, I think I must have turned red all over with modesty.

He brought me some chops, and vegetables, and took the covers off in
such a bouncing manner that I was afraid I must have given him some
offence. But he greatly relieved my mind by putting a chair for me at
the table, and saying, very affably, 'Now, six-foot! come on!'

I thanked him, and took my seat at the board; but found it extremely
difficult to handle my knife and fork with anything like dexterity,
or to avoid splashing myself with the gravy, while he was standing
opposite, staring so hard, and making me blush in the most dreadful
manner every time I caught his eye. After watching me into the second
chop, he said:

'There's half a pint of ale for you. Will you have it now?'

I thanked him and said, 'Yes.' Upon which he poured it out of a jug
into a large tumbler, and held it up against the light, and made it look
beautiful.

'My eye!' he said. 'It seems a good deal, don't it?'

'It does seem a good deal,' I answered with a smile. For it was quite
delightful to me, to find him so pleasant. He was a twinkling-eyed,
pimple-faced man, with his hair standing upright all over his head; and
as he stood with one arm a-kimbo, holding up the glass to the light with
the other hand, he looked quite friendly.

'There was a gentleman here, yesterday,' he said--'a stout gentleman, by
the name of Topsawyer--perhaps you know him?'

'No,' I said, 'I don't think--'

'In breeches and gaiters, broad-brimmed hat, grey coat, speckled
choker,' said the waiter.

'No,' I said bashfully, 'I haven't the pleasure--'

'He came in here,' said the waiter, looking at the light through the
tumbler, 'ordered a glass of this ale--WOULD order it--I told him
not--drank it, and fell dead. It was too old for him. It oughtn't to be
drawn; that's the fact.'

I was very much shocked to hear of this melancholy accident, and said I
thought I had better have some water.

'Why you see,' said the waiter, still looking at the light through the
tumbler, with one of his eyes shut up, 'our people don't like things
being ordered and left. It offends 'em. But I'll drink it, if you like.
I'm used to it, and use is everything. I don't think it'll hurt me, if I
throw my head back, and take it off quick. Shall I?'

I replied that he would much oblige me by drinking it, if he thought
he could do it safely, but by no means otherwise. When he did throw his
head back, and take it off quick, I had a horrible fear, I confess,
of seeing him meet the fate of the lamented Mr. Topsawyer, and fall
lifeless on the carpet. But it didn't hurt him. On the contrary, I
thought he seemed the fresher for it.

'What have we got here?' he said, putting a fork into my dish. 'Not
chops?'

'Chops,' I said.

'Lord bless my soul!' he exclaimed, 'I didn't know they were chops. Why,
a chop's the very thing to take off the bad effects of that beer! Ain't
it lucky?'

So he took a chop by the bone in one hand, and a potato in the other,
and ate away with a very good appetite, to my extreme satisfaction.
He afterwards took another chop, and another potato; and after that,
another chop and another potato. When we had done, he brought me a
pudding, and having set it before me, seemed to ruminate, and to become
absent in his mind for some moments.

'How's the pie?' he said, rousing himself.

'It's a pudding,' I made answer.

'Pudding!' he exclaimed. 'Why, bless me, so it is! What!' looking at it
nearer. 'You don't mean to say it's a batter-pudding!'

'Yes, it is indeed.'

'Why, a batter-pudding,' he said, taking up a table-spoon, 'is my
favourite pudding! Ain't that lucky? Come on, little 'un, and let's see
who'll get most.'

The waiter certainly got most. He entreated me more than once to come in
and win, but what with his table-spoon to my tea-spoon, his dispatch to
my dispatch, and his appetite to my appetite, I was left far behind at
the first mouthful, and had no chance with him. I never saw anyone enjoy
a pudding so much, I think; and he laughed, when it was all gone, as if
his enjoyment of it lasted still.

Finding him so very friendly and companionable, it was then that I asked
for the pen and ink and paper, to write to Peggotty. He not only brought
it immediately, but was good enough to look over me while I wrote the
letter. When I had finished it, he asked me where I was going to school.

I said, 'Near London,' which was all I knew.

'Oh! my eye!' he said, looking very low-spirited, 'I am sorry for that.'

'Why?' I asked him.

'Oh, Lord!' he said, shaking his head, 'that's the school where they
broke the boy's ribs--two ribs--a little boy he was. I should say he
was--let me see--how old are you, about?'

I told him between eight and nine.

'That's just his age,' he said. 'He was eight years and six months old
when they broke his first rib; eight years and eight months old when
they broke his second, and did for him.'

I could not disguise from myself, or from the waiter, that this was an
uncomfortable coincidence, and inquired how it was done. His answer was
not cheering to my spirits, for it consisted of two dismal words, 'With
whopping.'

The blowing of the coach-horn in the yard was a seasonable diversion,
which made me get up and hesitatingly inquire, in the mingled pride and
diffidence of having a purse (which I took out of my pocket), if there
were anything to pay.

'There's a sheet of letter-paper,' he returned. 'Did you ever buy a
sheet of letter-paper?'

I could not remember that I ever had.

'It's dear,' he said, 'on account of the duty. Threepence. That's
the way we're taxed in this country. There's nothing else, except the
waiter. Never mind the ink. I lose by that.'

'What should you--what should I--how much ought I to--what would it be
right to pay the waiter, if you please?' I stammered, blushing.

'If I hadn't a family, and that family hadn't the cowpock,' said the
waiter, 'I wouldn't take a sixpence. If I didn't support a aged pairint,
and a lovely sister,'--here the waiter was greatly agitated--'I wouldn't
take a farthing. If I had a good place, and was treated well here, I
should beg acceptance of a trifle, instead of taking of it. But I live
on broken wittles--and I sleep on the coals'--here the waiter burst into
tears.

I was very much concerned for his misfortunes, and felt that any
recognition short of ninepence would be mere brutality and hardness of
heart. Therefore I gave him one of my three bright shillings, which he
received with much humility and veneration, and spun up with his thumb,
directly afterwards, to try the goodness of.

It was a little disconcerting to me, to find, when I was being helped
up behind the coach, that I was supposed to have eaten all the dinner
without any assistance. I discovered this, from overhearing the lady in
the bow-window say to the guard, 'Take care of that child, George, or
he'll burst!' and from observing that the women-servants who were about
the place came out to look and giggle at me as a young phenomenon. My
unfortunate friend the waiter, who had quite recovered his spirits, did
not appear to be disturbed by this, but joined in the general admiration
without being at all confused. If I had any doubt of him, I suppose
this half awakened it; but I am inclined to believe that with the simple
confidence of a child, and the natural reliance of a child upon superior
years (qualities I am very sorry any children should prematurely change
for worldly wisdom), I had no serious mistrust of him on the whole, even
then.

I felt it rather hard, I must own, to be made, without deserving it, the
subject of jokes between the coachman and guard as to the coach drawing
heavy behind, on account of my sitting there, and as to the greater
expediency of my travelling by waggon. The story of my supposed appetite
getting wind among the outside passengers, they were merry upon it
likewise; and asked me whether I was going to be paid for, at school,
as two brothers or three, and whether I was contracted for, or went upon
the regular terms; with other pleasant questions. But the worst of
it was, that I knew I should be ashamed to eat anything, when an
opportunity offered, and that, after a rather light dinner, I should
remain hungry all night--for I had left my cakes behind, at the hotel,
in my hurry. My apprehensions were realized. When we stopped for supper
I couldn't muster courage to take any, though I should have liked it
very much, but sat by the fire and said I didn't want anything. This did
not save me from more jokes, either; for a husky-voiced gentleman with
a rough face, who had been eating out of a sandwich-box nearly all the
way, except when he had been drinking out of a bottle, said I was like
a boa-constrictor who took enough at one meal to last him a long time;
after which, he actually brought a rash out upon himself with boiled
beef.

We had started from Yarmouth at three o'clock in the afternoon, and we
were due in London about eight next morning. It was Mid-summer weather,
and the evening was very pleasant. When we passed through a village, I
pictured to myself what the insides of the houses were like, and what
the inhabitants were about; and when boys came running after us, and
got up behind and swung there for a little way, I wondered whether their
fathers were alive, and whether they were happy at home. I had plenty to
think of, therefore, besides my mind running continually on the kind
of place I was going to--which was an awful speculation. Sometimes, I
remember, I resigned myself to thoughts of home and Peggotty; and to
endeavouring, in a confused blind way, to recall how I had felt, and
what sort of boy I used to be, before I bit Mr. Murdstone: which I
couldn't satisfy myself about by any means, I seemed to have bitten him
in such a remote antiquity.

The night was not so pleasant as the evening, for it got chilly; and
being put between two gentlemen (the rough-faced one and another) to
prevent my tumbling off the coach, I was nearly smothered by their
falling asleep, and completely blocking me up. They squeezed me so hard
sometimes, that I could not help crying out, 'Oh! If you please!'--which
they didn't like at all, because it woke them. Opposite me was an
elderly lady in a great fur cloak, who looked in the dark more like a
haystack than a lady, she was wrapped up to such a degree. This lady had
a basket with her, and she hadn't known what to do with it, for a long
time, until she found that on account of my legs being short, it could
go underneath me. It cramped and hurt me so, that it made me perfectly
miserable; but if I moved in the least, and made a glass that was in the
basket rattle against something else (as it was sure to do), she gave
me the cruellest poke with her foot, and said, 'Come, don't YOU fidget.
YOUR bones are young enough, I'm sure!'

At last the sun rose, and then my companions seemed to sleep easier.
The difficulties under which they had laboured all night, and which had
found utterance in the most terrific gasps and snorts, are not to be
conceived. As the sun got higher, their sleep became lighter, and so
they gradually one by one awoke. I recollect being very much surprised
by the feint everybody made, then, of not having been to sleep at all,
and by the uncommon indignation with which everyone repelled the
charge. I labour under the same kind of astonishment to this day, having
invariably observed that of all human weaknesses, the one to which our
common nature is the least disposed to confess (I cannot imagine why) is
the weakness of having gone to sleep in a coach.

What an amazing place London was to me when I saw it in the distance,
and how I believed all the adventures of all my favourite heroes to be
constantly enacting and re-enacting there, and how I vaguely made it
out in my own mind to be fuller of wonders and wickedness than all the
cities of the earth, I need not stop here to relate. We approached it by
degrees, and got, in due time, to the inn in the Whitechapel district,
for which we were bound. I forget whether it was the Blue Bull, or the
Blue Boar; but I know it was the Blue Something, and that its likeness
was painted up on the back of the coach.

The guard's eye lighted on me as he was getting down, and he said at the
booking-office door:

'Is there anybody here for a yoongster booked in the name of Murdstone,
from Bloonderstone, Sooffolk, to be left till called for?'

Nobody answered.

'Try Copperfield, if you please, sir,' said I, looking helplessly down.

'Is there anybody here for a yoongster, booked in the name of Murdstone,
from Bloonderstone, Sooffolk, but owning to the name of Copperfield, to
be left till called for?' said the guard. 'Come! IS there anybody?'

No. There was nobody. I looked anxiously around; but the inquiry made no
impression on any of the bystanders, if I except a man in gaiters, with
one eye, who suggested that they had better put a brass collar round my
neck, and tie me up in the stable.

A ladder was brought, and I got down after the lady, who was like a
haystack: not daring to stir, until her basket was removed. The coach
was clear of passengers by that time, the luggage was very soon cleared
out, the horses had been taken out before the luggage, and now the coach
itself was wheeled and backed off by some hostlers, out of the way.
Still, nobody appeared, to claim the dusty youngster from Blunderstone,
Suffolk.

More solitary than Robinson Crusoe, who had nobody to look at him
and see that he was solitary, I went into the booking-office, and, by
invitation of the clerk on duty, passed behind the counter, and sat down
on the scale at which they weighed the luggage. Here, as I sat looking
at the parcels, packages, and books, and inhaling the smell of stables
(ever since associated with that morning), a procession of most
tremendous considerations began to march through my mind. Supposing
nobody should ever fetch me, how long would they consent to keep me
there? Would they keep me long enough to spend seven shillings? Should I
sleep at night in one of those wooden bins, with the other luggage,
and wash myself at the pump in the yard in the morning; or should I
be turned out every night, and expected to come again to be left till
called for, when the office opened next day? Supposing there was no
mistake in the case, and Mr. Murdstone had devised this plan to get rid
of me, what should I do? If they allowed me to remain there until my
seven shillings were spent, I couldn't hope to remain there when I began
to starve. That would obviously be inconvenient and unpleasant to the
customers, besides entailing on the Blue Whatever-it-was, the risk of
funeral expenses. If I started off at once, and tried to walk back home,
how could I ever find my way, how could I ever hope to walk so far, how
could I make sure of anyone but Peggotty, even if I got back? If I
found out the nearest proper authorities, and offered myself to go for a
soldier, or a sailor, I was such a little fellow that it was most likely
they wouldn't take me in. These thoughts, and a hundred other such
thoughts, turned me burning hot, and made me giddy with apprehension and
dismay. I was in the height of my fever when a man entered and whispered
to the clerk, who presently slanted me off the scale, and pushed me over
to him, as if I were weighed, bought, delivered, and paid for.

As I went out of the office, hand in hand with this new acquaintance,
I stole a look at him. He was a gaunt, sallow young man, with hollow
cheeks, and a chin almost as black as Mr. Murdstone's; but there the
likeness ended, for his whiskers were shaved off, and his hair, instead
of being glossy, was rusty and dry. He was dressed in a suit of black
clothes which were rather rusty and dry too, and rather short in the
sleeves and legs; and he had a white neck-kerchief on, that was not
over-clean. I did not, and do not, suppose that this neck-kerchief was
all the linen he wore, but it was all he showed or gave any hint of.

'You're the new boy?' he said. 'Yes, sir,' I said.

I supposed I was. I didn't know.

'I'm one of the masters at Salem House,' he said.

I made him a bow and felt very much overawed. I was so ashamed to allude
to a commonplace thing like my box, to a scholar and a master at Salem
House, that we had gone some little distance from the yard before I had
the hardihood to mention it. We turned back, on my humbly insinuating
that it might be useful to me hereafter; and he told the clerk that the
carrier had instructions to call for it at noon.

'If you please, sir,' I said, when we had accomplished about the same
distance as before, 'is it far?'

'It's down by Blackheath,' he said.

'Is that far, sir?' I diffidently asked.

'It's a good step,' he said. 'We shall go by the stage-coach. It's about
six miles.'

I was so faint and tired, that the idea of holding out for six miles
more, was too much for me. I took heart to tell him that I had had
nothing all night, and that if he would allow me to buy something to
eat, I should be very much obliged to him. He appeared surprised at
this--I see him stop and look at me now--and after considering for a few
moments, said he wanted to call on an old person who lived not far off,
and that the best way would be for me to buy some bread, or whatever I
liked best that was wholesome, and make my breakfast at her house, where
we could get some milk.

Accordingly we looked in at a baker's window, and after I had made a
series of proposals to buy everything that was bilious in the shop, and
he had rejected them one by one, we decided in favour of a nice little
loaf of brown bread, which cost me threepence. Then, at a grocer's shop,
we bought an egg and a slice of streaky bacon; which still left what
I thought a good deal of change, out of the second of the bright
shillings, and made me consider London a very cheap place. These
provisions laid in, we went on through a great noise and uproar that
confused my weary head beyond description, and over a bridge which, no
doubt, was London Bridge (indeed I think he told me so, but I was half
asleep), until we came to the poor person's house, which was a part of
some alms-houses, as I knew by their look, and by an inscription on a
stone over the gate which said they were established for twenty-five
poor women.

The Master at Salem House lifted the latch of one of a number of little
black doors that were all alike, and had each a little diamond-paned
window on one side, and another little diamond--paned window above; and
we went into the little house of one of these poor old women, who was
blowing a fire to make a little saucepan boil. On seeing the master
enter, the old woman stopped with the bellows on her knee, and said
something that I thought sounded like 'My Charley!' but on seeing me
come in too, she got up, and rubbing her hands made a confused sort of
half curtsey.

'Can you cook this young gentleman's breakfast for him, if you please?'
said the Master at Salem House.

'Can I?' said the old woman. 'Yes can I, sure!'

'How's Mrs. Fibbitson today?' said the Master, looking at another old
woman in a large chair by the fire, who was such a bundle of clothes
that I feel grateful to this hour for not having sat upon her by
mistake.

'Ah, she's poorly,' said the first old woman. 'It's one of her bad days.
If the fire was to go out, through any accident, I verily believe she'd
go out too, and never come to life again.'

As they looked at her, I looked at her also. Although it was a warm day,
she seemed to think of nothing but the fire. I fancied she was jealous
even of the saucepan on it; and I have reason to know that she took its
impressment into the service of boiling my egg and broiling my bacon, in
dudgeon; for I saw her, with my own discomfited eyes, shake her fist at
me once, when those culinary operations were going on, and no one else
was looking. The sun streamed in at the little window, but she sat with
her own back and the back of the large chair towards it, screening the
fire as if she were sedulously keeping IT warm, instead of it keeping
her warm, and watching it in a most distrustful manner. The completion
of the preparations for my breakfast, by relieving the fire, gave her
such extreme joy that she laughed aloud--and a very unmelodious laugh
she had, I must say.

I sat down to my brown loaf, my egg, and my rasher of bacon, with a
basin of milk besides, and made a most delicious meal. While I was yet
in the full enjoyment of it, the old woman of the house said to the
Master:

'Have you got your flute with you?'

'Yes,' he returned.

'Have a blow at it,' said the old woman, coaxingly. 'Do!'

The Master, upon this, put his hand underneath the skirts of his coat,
and brought out his flute in three pieces, which he screwed together,
and began immediately to play. My impression is, after many years of
consideration, that there never can have been anybody in the world who
played worse. He made the most dismal sounds I have ever heard produced
by any means, natural or artificial. I don't know what the tunes
were--if there were such things in the performance at all, which I
doubt--but the influence of the strain upon me was, first, to make me
think of all my sorrows until I could hardly keep my tears back; then to
take away my appetite; and lastly, to make me so sleepy that I couldn't
keep my eyes open. They begin to close again, and I begin to nod, as the
recollection rises fresh upon me. Once more the little room, with its
open corner cupboard, and its square-backed chairs, and its angular
little staircase leading to the room above, and its three peacock's
feathers displayed over the mantelpiece--I remember wondering when I
first went in, what that peacock would have thought if he had known what
his finery was doomed to come to--fades from before me, and I nod, and
sleep. The flute becomes inaudible, the wheels of the coach are heard
instead, and I am on my journey. The coach jolts, I wake with a start,
and the flute has come back again, and the Master at Salem House is
sitting with his legs crossed, playing it dolefully, while the old woman
of the house looks on delighted. She fades in her turn, and he fades,
and all fades, and there is no flute, no Master, no Salem House, no
David Copperfield, no anything but heavy sleep.

I dreamed, I thought, that once while he was blowing into this dismal
flute, the old woman of the house, who had gone nearer and nearer to him
in her ecstatic admiration, leaned over the back of his chair and gave
him an affectionate squeeze round the neck, which stopped his playing
for a moment. I was in the middle state between sleeping and waking,
either then or immediately afterwards; for, as he resumed--it was a real
fact that he had stopped playing--I saw and heard the same old woman ask
Mrs. Fibbitson if it wasn't delicious (meaning the flute), to which Mrs.
Fibbitson replied, 'Ay, ay! yes!' and nodded at the fire: to which, I am
persuaded, she gave the credit of the whole performance.

When I seemed to have been dozing a long while, the Master at Salem
House unscrewed his flute into the three pieces, put them up as before,
and took me away. We found the coach very near at hand, and got upon the
roof; but I was so dead sleepy, that when we stopped on the road to take
up somebody else, they put me inside where there were no passengers, and
where I slept profoundly, until I found the coach going at a footpace up
a steep hill among green leaves. Presently, it stopped, and had come to
its destination.

A short walk brought us--I mean the Master and me--to Salem House, which
was enclosed with a high brick wall, and looked very dull. Over a door
in this wall was a board with SALEM HOUSE upon it; and through a grating
in this door we were surveyed when we rang the bell by a surly face,
which I found, on the door being opened, belonged to a stout man with a
bull-neck, a wooden leg, overhanging temples, and his hair cut close all
round his head.

'The new boy,' said the Master.

The man with the wooden leg eyed me all over--it didn't take long, for
there was not much of me--and locked the gate behind us, and took out
the key. We were going up to the house, among some dark heavy trees,
when he called after my conductor. 'Hallo!'

We looked back, and he was standing at the door of a little lodge, where
he lived, with a pair of boots in his hand.

'Here! The cobbler's been,' he said, 'since you've been out, Mr. Mell,
and he says he can't mend 'em any more. He says there ain't a bit of the
original boot left, and he wonders you expect it.'

With these words he threw the boots towards Mr. Mell, who went back a
few paces to pick them up, and looked at them (very disconsolately,
I was afraid), as we went on together. I observed then, for the first
time, that the boots he had on were a good deal the worse for wear, and
that his stocking was just breaking out in one place, like a bud.

Salem House was a square brick building with wings; of a bare and
unfurnished appearance. All about it was so very quiet, that I said to
Mr. Mell I supposed the boys were out; but he seemed surprised at my
not knowing that it was holiday-time. That all the boys were at their
several homes. That Mr. Creakle, the proprietor, was down by the
sea-side with Mrs. and Miss Creakle; and that I was sent in holiday-time
as a punishment for my misdoing, all of which he explained to me as we
went along.

I gazed upon the schoolroom into which he took me, as the most forlorn
and desolate place I had ever seen. I see it now. A long room with three
long rows of desks, and six of forms, and bristling all round with pegs
for hats and slates. Scraps of old copy-books and exercises litter the
dirty floor. Some silkworms' houses, made of the same materials, are
scattered over the desks. Two miserable little white mice, left behind
by their owner, are running up and down in a fusty castle made of
pasteboard and wire, looking in all the corners with their red eyes
for anything to eat. A bird, in a cage very little bigger than himself,
makes a mournful rattle now and then in hopping on his perch, two inches
high, or dropping from it; but neither sings nor chirps. There is a
strange unwholesome smell upon the room, like mildewed corduroys, sweet
apples wanting air, and rotten books. There could not well be more ink
splashed about it, if it had been roofless from its first construction,
and the skies had rained, snowed, hailed, and blown ink through the
varying seasons of the year.

Mr. Mell having left me while he took his irreparable boots upstairs, I
went softly to the upper end of the room, observing all this as I crept
along. Suddenly I came upon a pasteboard placard, beautifully written,
which was lying on the desk, and bore these words: 'TAKE CARE OF HIM. HE
BITES.'

I got upon the desk immediately, apprehensive of at least a great dog
underneath. But, though I looked all round with anxious eyes, I could
see nothing of him. I was still engaged in peering about, when Mr. Mell
came back, and asked me what I did up there?

'I beg your pardon, sir,' says I, 'if you please, I'm looking for the
dog.'

'Dog?' he says. 'What dog?'

'Isn't it a dog, sir?'

'Isn't what a dog?'

'That's to be taken care of, sir; that bites.'

'No, Copperfield,' says he, gravely, 'that's not a dog. That's a boy.
My instructions are, Copperfield, to put this placard on your back. I am
sorry to make such a beginning with you, but I must do it.' With that he
took me down, and tied the placard, which was neatly constructed for
the purpose, on my shoulders like a knapsack; and wherever I went,
afterwards, I had the consolation of carrying it.

What I suffered from that placard, nobody can imagine. Whether it was
possible for people to see me or not, I always fancied that somebody was
reading it. It was no relief to turn round and find nobody; for wherever
my back was, there I imagined somebody always to be. That cruel man with
the wooden leg aggravated my sufferings. He was in authority; and if he
ever saw me leaning against a tree, or a wall, or the house, he roared
out from his lodge door in a stupendous voice, 'Hallo, you sir! You
Copperfield! Show that badge conspicuous, or I'll report you!' The
playground was a bare gravelled yard, open to all the back of the house
and the offices; and I knew that the servants read it, and the butcher
read it, and the baker read it; that everybody, in a word, who came
backwards and forwards to the house, of a morning when I was ordered to
walk there, read that I was to be taken care of, for I bit, I recollect
that I positively began to have a dread of myself, as a kind of wild boy
who did bite.

There was an old door in this playground, on which the boys had a
custom of carving their names. It was completely covered with such
inscriptions. In my dread of the end of the vacation and their coming
back, I could not read a boy's name, without inquiring in what tone and
with what emphasis HE would read, 'Take care of him. He bites.' There
was one boy--a certain J. Steerforth--who cut his name very deep and
very often, who, I conceived, would read it in a rather strong voice,
and afterwards pull my hair. There was another boy, one Tommy Traddles,
who I dreaded would make game of it, and pretend to be dreadfully
frightened of me. There was a third, George Demple, who I fancied would
sing it. I have looked, a little shrinking creature, at that door, until
the owners of all the names--there were five-and-forty of them in the
school then, Mr. Mell said--seemed to send me to Coventry by general
acclamation, and to cry out, each in his own way, 'Take care of him. He
bites!'

It was the same with the places at the desks and forms. It was the same
with the groves of deserted bedsteads I peeped at, on my way to, and
when I was in, my own bed. I remember dreaming night after night, of
being with my mother as she used to be, or of going to a party at Mr.
Peggotty's, or of travelling outside the stage-coach, or of dining again
with my unfortunate friend the waiter, and in all these circumstances
making people scream and stare, by the unhappy disclosure that I had
nothing on but my little night-shirt, and that placard.

In the monotony of my life, and in my constant apprehension of the
re-opening of the school, it was such an insupportable affliction! I had
long tasks every day to do with Mr. Mell; but I did them, there being
no Mr. and Miss Murdstone here, and got through them without disgrace.
Before, and after them, I walked about--supervised, as I have mentioned,
by the man with the wooden leg. How vividly I call to mind the damp
about the house, the green cracked flagstones in the court, an old leaky
water-butt, and the discoloured trunks of some of the grim trees, which
seemed to have dripped more in the rain than other trees, and to have
blown less in the sun! At one we dined, Mr. Mell and I, at the upper end
of a long bare dining-room, full of deal tables, and smelling of fat.
Then, we had more tasks until tea, which Mr. Mell drank out of a blue
teacup, and I out of a tin pot. All day long, and until seven or eight
in the evening, Mr. Mell, at his own detached desk in the schoolroom,
worked hard with pen, ink, ruler, books, and writing-paper, making out
the bills (as I found) for last half-year. When he had put up his things
for the night he took out his flute, and blew at it, until I almost
thought he would gradually blow his whole being into the large hole at
the top, and ooze away at the keys.

I picture my small self in the dimly-lighted rooms, sitting with my
head upon my hand, listening to the doleful performance of Mr. Mell,
and conning tomorrow's lessons. I picture myself with my books shut up,
still listening to the doleful performance of Mr. Mell, and listening
through it to what used to be at home, and to the blowing of the wind
on Yarmouth flats, and feeling very sad and solitary. I picture myself
going up to bed, among the unused rooms, and sitting on my bed-side
crying for a comfortable word from Peggotty. I picture myself coming
downstairs in the morning, and looking through a long ghastly gash of a
staircase window at the school-bell hanging on the top of an out-house
with a weathercock above it; and dreading the time when it shall ring J.
Steerforth and the rest to work: which is only second, in my foreboding
apprehensions, to the time when the man with the wooden leg shall unlock
the rusty gate to give admission to the awful Mr. Creakle. I cannot
think I was a very dangerous character in any of these aspects, but in
all of them I carried the same warning on my back.

Mr. Mell never said much to me, but he was never harsh to me. I suppose
we were company to each other, without talking. I forgot to mention that
he would talk to himself sometimes, and grin, and clench his fist, and
grind his teeth, and pull his hair in an unaccountable manner. But he
had these peculiarities: and at first they frightened me, though I soon
got used to them.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: David's crying in the cart as they drive away when, suddenly, Peggotty jumps through the hedge next to the road and climbs onto the cart. She hugs David tightly, presses a purse into his hand, and then runs away. The carrier, Mr. Barkis, starts his driving again. The purse holds a bit of money and note: "For Davy. With my love" . Seeing this, David starts weeping yet again. Mr. Barkis tells David that they will only be going as far as Yarmouth, where David will catch a coach to his final destination. Then, David offers Mr. Barkis a piece of cake. Mr. Barkis eats it and asks if it was made by Peggotty. David answers yes, Peggotty does all of their cooking. Mr. Barkis asks if Peggotty has any sweethearts - suitors. David says, no, so far as he knows, Peggotty has never had a boyfriend. Mr. Barkis wonders if David will be writing letters to Peggotty. David says, yes, of course. The carrier asks David to include a message in his next letter to Peggotty: "Barkis is willin'" . But Mr. Barkis won't clarify what, exactly, he's willing to do. Mr. Barkis and David arrive at a totally unfamiliar inn at Yarmouth. David introduces himself as Copperfield, then as Murdstone, to the lady at the inn, who agrees that a dinner has been bought for him. He settles in for dinner with a waiter who, while seeming like a nice guy, still manages to steal David's food, ale, and dessert right out from under his nose. Then, the waiter brings David ink and paper, which he plans to use to write to Peggotty. The waiter scares David half to death with stories of boys being beaten at school - boys of exactly David's age, between eight and nine. The waiter also manages to guilt David into giving him a giant tip. David gets into a public coach bound for London. Having supposedly eaten so very much , David feels annoyed that he's now the butt of a lot of jokes between the coachman and the other passengers about his appetite. The coach carries David to an inn in the Whitechapel district, where he is left behind. Nobody there is expecting a boy called Copperfield, from Blunderstone, Suffolk. David feels incredibly isolated: what if no one comes to pick him up? What will he do? Finally, someone comes to the inn office: a thin young man with lots of stubble and a poor suit of clothes. This guy is one of the teachers at Salem House, David's new school, and he has come to fetch David. David and this teacher agree to stop on the way to the school so that David can get something to eat. They pause at a housing complex for poor women; they enter a small apartment where an elderly woman greets the teacher as, "My Charley!" . The apartment is terribly cold and poor and meager, but the elderly woman still has enough to cook up some breakfast for David. The woman asks Mr. Mell - whom David calls "the Master," because he is a master, a.k.a. a teacher, at Salem House - to play the flute a bit. Mr. Mell does, but the music is awful - his music is terribly sad and dismal. Eventually, a friend comes by, another elderly lady: Mrs. Fibbitson. Mrs. Fibbitson agrees with his mother that Mr. Mell plays the flute beautifully - which is totally not true, but does spare his mother's feelings. David soon nods off to sleep to the sound of this awful flute. He sleeps right through the subsequent coach ride to his new home, Salem House. This school is incredibly grim looking. The door of the school is opened by a man with a wooden leg , who tells Mr. Mell that the cobbler has been by the house, but hasn't been able to fix his boots. Mr. Mell is clearly really bummed. David notices that Mr. Mell's shoes and socks both have holes in them. David also learns that he's there during the school's holiday season, so there are no other boys on campus. Even the owner of the school, Mr. Creakle, and his family aren't there. David goes into an empty schoolroom, where he finds a little sign that says, "Take care of him. He bites" . Mr. Mell comes up behind David and asks what he's doing. David asks if there is a dog around that he should be careful of. Mr. Mell says the sign's not for a dog, it's for David: they have been warned that he bites. Mr. Mell apologizes for having to start out with David in this way, but he has to put the sign around David's neck. This sign does terrible things for David's confidence: he becomes paranoid that people think he really does bite. As David explores the school in everyone's absence, he sees that a lot of the boys have carved their names in an old door to the playground; he tries to figure out what kind of people they are from the way they carve their names. Mr. Mell and David both have long lists of chores to do, but David gets through them because he has nothing else to do. David also spends a lot of time with Tungay, who acts as a kind of caretaker to the building. He's pretty mean to David; he won't let him turn his sign so that no one can see it. Mr. Mell is never cruel to David, though he doesn't talk to him much. David thinks Mr. Mell likes having company.


prompt:
Chapter: I HAD led this life about a month, when the man with the wooden leg
began to stump about with a mop and a bucket of water, from which I
inferred that preparations were making to receive Mr. Creakle and the
boys. I was not mistaken; for the mop came into the schoolroom before
long, and turned out Mr. Mell and me, who lived where we could, and got
on how we could, for some days, during which we were always in the way
of two or three young women, who had rarely shown themselves before, and
were so continually in the midst of dust that I sneezed almost as much
as if Salem House had been a great snuff-box.

One day I was informed by Mr. Mell that Mr. Creakle would be home that
evening. In the evening, after tea, I heard that he was come. Before
bedtime, I was fetched by the man with the wooden leg to appear before
him.

Mr. Creakle's part of the house was a good deal more comfortable than
ours, and he had a snug bit of garden that looked pleasant after the
dusty playground, which was such a desert in miniature, that I thought
no one but a camel, or a dromedary, could have felt at home in it. It
seemed to me a bold thing even to take notice that the passage looked
comfortable, as I went on my way, trembling, to Mr. Creakle's presence:
which so abashed me, when I was ushered into it, that I hardly saw
Mrs. Creakle or Miss Creakle (who were both there, in the parlour), or
anything but Mr. Creakle, a stout gentleman with a bunch of watch-chain
and seals, in an arm-chair, with a tumbler and bottle beside him.

'So!' said Mr. Creakle. 'This is the young gentleman whose teeth are to
be filed! Turn him round.'

The wooden-legged man turned me about so as to exhibit the placard; and
having afforded time for a full survey of it, turned me about again,
with my face to Mr. Creakle, and posted himself at Mr. Creakle's side.
Mr. Creakle's face was fiery, and his eyes were small, and deep in his
head; he had thick veins in his forehead, a little nose, and a large
chin. He was bald on the top of his head; and had some thin wet-looking
hair that was just turning grey, brushed across each temple, so that
the two sides interlaced on his forehead. But the circumstance about
him which impressed me most, was, that he had no voice, but spoke in a
whisper. The exertion this cost him, or the consciousness of talking in
that feeble way, made his angry face so much more angry, and his thick
veins so much thicker, when he spoke, that I am not surprised, on
looking back, at this peculiarity striking me as his chief one. 'Now,'
said Mr. Creakle. 'What's the report of this boy?'

'There's nothing against him yet,' returned the man with the wooden leg.
'There has been no opportunity.'

I thought Mr. Creakle was disappointed. I thought Mrs. and Miss Creakle
(at whom I now glanced for the first time, and who were, both, thin and
quiet) were not disappointed.

'Come here, sir!' said Mr. Creakle, beckoning to me.

'Come here!' said the man with the wooden leg, repeating the gesture.

'I have the happiness of knowing your father-in-law,' whispered Mr.
Creakle, taking me by the ear; 'and a worthy man he is, and a man of
a strong character. He knows me, and I know him. Do YOU know me? Hey?'
said Mr. Creakle, pinching my ear with ferocious playfulness.

'Not yet, sir,' I said, flinching with the pain.

'Not yet? Hey?' repeated Mr. Creakle. 'But you will soon. Hey?'

'You will soon. Hey?' repeated the man with the wooden leg. I afterwards
found that he generally acted, with his strong voice, as Mr. Creakle's
interpreter to the boys.

I was very much frightened, and said, I hoped so, if he pleased. I felt,
all this while, as if my ear were blazing; he pinched it so hard.

'I'll tell you what I am,' whispered Mr. Creakle, letting it go at last,
with a screw at parting that brought the water into my eyes. 'I'm a
Tartar.'

'A Tartar,' said the man with the wooden leg.

'When I say I'll do a thing, I do it,' said Mr. Creakle; 'and when I say
I will have a thing done, I will have it done.'

'--Will have a thing done, I will have it done,' repeated the man with
the wooden leg.

'I am a determined character,' said Mr. Creakle. 'That's what I am. I
do my duty. That's what I do. My flesh and blood'--he looked at Mrs.
Creakle as he said this--'when it rises against me, is not my flesh
and blood. I discard it. Has that fellow'--to the man with the wooden
leg--'been here again?'

'No,' was the answer.

'No,' said Mr. Creakle. 'He knows better. He knows me. Let him keep
away. I say let him keep away,' said Mr. Creakle, striking his hand upon
the table, and looking at Mrs. Creakle, 'for he knows me. Now you have
begun to know me too, my young friend, and you may go. Take him away.'

I was very glad to be ordered away, for Mrs. and Miss Creakle were both
wiping their eyes, and I felt as uncomfortable for them as I did for
myself. But I had a petition on my mind which concerned me so nearly,
that I couldn't help saying, though I wondered at my own courage:

'If you please, sir--'

Mr. Creakle whispered, 'Hah! What's this?' and bent his eyes upon me, as
if he would have burnt me up with them.

'If you please, sir,' I faltered, 'if I might be allowed (I am very
sorry indeed, sir, for what I did) to take this writing off, before the
boys come back--'

Whether Mr. Creakle was in earnest, or whether he only did it to
frighten me, I don't know, but he made a burst out of his chair, before
which I precipitately retreated, without waiting for the escort of the
man with the wooden leg, and never once stopped until I reached my own
bedroom, where, finding I was not pursued, I went to bed, as it was
time, and lay quaking, for a couple of hours.

Next morning Mr. Sharp came back. Mr. Sharp was the first master, and
superior to Mr. Mell. Mr. Mell took his meals with the boys, but
Mr. Sharp dined and supped at Mr. Creakle's table. He was a limp,
delicate-looking gentleman, I thought, with a good deal of nose, and a
way of carrying his head on one side, as if it were a little too heavy
for him. His hair was very smooth and wavy; but I was informed by the
very first boy who came back that it was a wig (a second-hand one HE
said), and that Mr. Sharp went out every Saturday afternoon to get it
curled.

It was no other than Tommy Traddles who gave me this piece of
intelligence. He was the first boy who returned. He introduced himself
by informing me that I should find his name on the right-hand corner of
the gate, over the top-bolt; upon that I said, 'Traddles?' to which he
replied, 'The same,' and then he asked me for a full account of myself
and family.

It was a happy circumstance for me that Traddles came back first. He
enjoyed my placard so much, that he saved me from the embarrassment of
either disclosure or concealment, by presenting me to every other boy
who came back, great or small, immediately on his arrival, in this form
of introduction, 'Look here! Here's a game!' Happily, too, the greater
part of the boys came back low-spirited, and were not so boisterous at
my expense as I had expected. Some of them certainly did dance about me
like wild Indians, and the greater part could not resist the temptation
of pretending that I was a dog, and patting and soothing me, lest I
should bite, and saying, 'Lie down, sir!' and calling me Towzer. This
was naturally confusing, among so many strangers, and cost me some
tears, but on the whole it was much better than I had anticipated.

I was not considered as being formally received into the school,
however, until J. Steerforth arrived. Before this boy, who was
reputed to be a great scholar, and was very good-looking, and at least
half-a-dozen years my senior, I was carried as before a magistrate. He
inquired, under a shed in the playground, into the particulars of my
punishment, and was pleased to express his opinion that it was 'a jolly
shame'; for which I became bound to him ever afterwards.

'What money have you got, Copperfield?' he said, walking aside with
me when he had disposed of my affair in these terms. I told him seven
shillings.

'You had better give it to me to take care of,' he said. 'At least, you
can if you like. You needn't if you don't like.'

I hastened to comply with his friendly suggestion, and opening
Peggotty's purse, turned it upside down into his hand.

'Do you want to spend anything now?' he asked me.

'No thank you,' I replied.

'You can, if you like, you know,' said Steerforth. 'Say the word.'

'No, thank you, sir,' I repeated.

'Perhaps you'd like to spend a couple of shillings or so, in a bottle of
currant wine by and by, up in the bedroom?' said Steerforth. 'You belong
to my bedroom, I find.'

It certainly had not occurred to me before, but I said, Yes, I should
like that.

'Very good,' said Steerforth. 'You'll be glad to spend another shilling
or so, in almond cakes, I dare say?'

I said, Yes, I should like that, too.

'And another shilling or so in biscuits, and another in fruit, eh?' said
Steerforth. 'I say, young Copperfield, you're going it!'

I smiled because he smiled, but I was a little troubled in my mind, too.

'Well!' said Steerforth. 'We must make it stretch as far as we can;
that's all. I'll do the best in my power for you. I can go out when I
like, and I'll smuggle the prog in.' With these words he put the money
in his pocket, and kindly told me not to make myself uneasy; he would
take care it should be all right. He was as good as his word, if that
were all right which I had a secret misgiving was nearly all wrong--for
I feared it was a waste of my mother's two half-crowns--though I had
preserved the piece of paper they were wrapped in: which was a precious
saving. When we went upstairs to bed, he produced the whole seven
shillings' worth, and laid it out on my bed in the moonlight, saying:

'There you are, young Copperfield, and a royal spread you've got.'

I couldn't think of doing the honours of the feast, at my time of life,
while he was by; my hand shook at the very thought of it. I begged him
to do me the favour of presiding; and my request being seconded by the
other boys who were in that room, he acceded to it, and sat upon my
pillow, handing round the viands--with perfect fairness, I must say--and
dispensing the currant wine in a little glass without a foot, which was
his own property. As to me, I sat on his left hand, and the rest were
grouped about us, on the nearest beds and on the floor.

How well I recollect our sitting there, talking in whispers; or their
talking, and my respectfully listening, I ought rather to say; the
moonlight falling a little way into the room, through the window,
painting a pale window on the floor, and the greater part of us in
shadow, except when Steerforth dipped a match into a phosphorus-box,
when he wanted to look for anything on the board, and shed a blue glare
over us that was gone directly! A certain mysterious feeling, consequent
on the darkness, the secrecy of the revel, and the whisper in which
everything was said, steals over me again, and I listen to all they tell
me with a vague feeling of solemnity and awe, which makes me glad that
they are all so near, and frightens me (though I feign to laugh) when
Traddles pretends to see a ghost in the corner.

I heard all kinds of things about the school and all belonging to it.
I heard that Mr. Creakle had not preferred his claim to being a Tartar
without reason; that he was the sternest and most severe of masters;
that he laid about him, right and left, every day of his life, charging
in among the boys like a trooper, and slashing away, unmercifully. That
he knew nothing himself, but the art of slashing, being more ignorant
(J. Steerforth said) than the lowest boy in the school; that he had
been, a good many years ago, a small hop-dealer in the Borough, and had
taken to the schooling business after being bankrupt in hops, and making
away with Mrs. Creakle's money. With a good deal more of that sort,
which I wondered how they knew.

I heard that the man with the wooden leg, whose name was Tungay, was an
obstinate barbarian who had formerly assisted in the hop business, but
had come into the scholastic line with Mr. Creakle, in consequence,
as was supposed among the boys, of his having broken his leg in Mr.
Creakle's service, and having done a deal of dishonest work for him,
and knowing his secrets. I heard that with the single exception of Mr.
Creakle, Tungay considered the whole establishment, masters and boys,
as his natural enemies, and that the only delight of his life was to be
sour and malicious. I heard that Mr. Creakle had a son, who had not been
Tungay's friend, and who, assisting in the school, had once held some
remonstrance with his father on an occasion when its discipline was very
cruelly exercised, and was supposed, besides, to have protested against
his father's usage of his mother. I heard that Mr. Creakle had turned
him out of doors, in consequence; and that Mrs. and Miss Creakle had
been in a sad way, ever since.

But the greatest wonder that I heard of Mr. Creakle was, there being one
boy in the school on whom he never ventured to lay a hand, and that
boy being J. Steerforth. Steerforth himself confirmed this when it was
stated, and said that he should like to begin to see him do it. On being
asked by a mild boy (not me) how he would proceed if he did begin to see
him do it, he dipped a match into his phosphorus-box on purpose to shed
a glare over his reply, and said he would commence by knocking him down
with a blow on the forehead from the seven-and-sixpenny ink-bottle
that was always on the mantelpiece. We sat in the dark for some time,
breathless.

I heard that Mr. Sharp and Mr. Mell were both supposed to be wretchedly
paid; and that when there was hot and cold meat for dinner at Mr.
Creakle's table, Mr. Sharp was always expected to say he preferred cold;
which was again corroborated by J. Steerforth, the only parlour-boarder.
I heard that Mr. Sharp's wig didn't fit him; and that he needn't be so
'bounceable'--somebody else said 'bumptious'--about it, because his own
red hair was very plainly to be seen behind.

I heard that one boy, who was a coal-merchant's son, came as a set-off
against the coal-bill, and was called, on that account, 'Exchange or
Barter'--a name selected from the arithmetic book as expressing this
arrangement. I heard that the table beer was a robbery of parents, and
the pudding an imposition. I heard that Miss Creakle was regarded by the
school in general as being in love with Steerforth; and I am sure, as I
sat in the dark, thinking of his nice voice, and his fine face, and his
easy manner, and his curling hair, I thought it very likely. I heard
that Mr. Mell was not a bad sort of fellow, but hadn't a sixpence to
bless himself with; and that there was no doubt that old Mrs. Mell, his
mother, was as poor as job. I thought of my breakfast then, and what had
sounded like 'My Charley!' but I was, I am glad to remember, as mute as
a mouse about it.

The hearing of all this, and a good deal more, outlasted the banquet
some time. The greater part of the guests had gone to bed as soon as the
eating and drinking were over; and we, who had remained whispering and
listening half-undressed, at last betook ourselves to bed, too.

'Good night, young Copperfield,' said Steerforth. 'I'll take care of
you.' 'You're very kind,' I gratefully returned. 'I am very much obliged
to you.'

'You haven't got a sister, have you?' said Steerforth, yawning.

'No,' I answered.

'That's a pity,' said Steerforth. 'If you had had one, I should think
she would have been a pretty, timid, little, bright-eyed sort of girl. I
should have liked to know her. Good night, young Copperfield.'

'Good night, sir,' I replied.

I thought of him very much after I went to bed, and raised myself,
I recollect, to look at him where he lay in the moonlight, with his
handsome face turned up, and his head reclining easily on his arm. He
was a person of great power in my eyes; that was, of course, the reason
of my mind running on him. No veiled future dimly glanced upon him in
the moonbeams. There was no shadowy picture of his footsteps, in the
garden that I dreamed of walking in all night.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: After about a month of this, Mr. Creakle and the students of Salem House start to return from the summer holidays. Before bedtime one night, Tungay fetches David and takes him to Mr. Creakle's part of the building. Mr. Creakle is waiting with Mrs. Creakle, his wife, and Miss Creakle, his daughter. Mr. Creakle's face is red and horribly angry-looking, but he speaks in a tiny whisper that makes him all the more intimidating. Mr. Creakle tells David that he knows David's stepfather, Mr. Murdstone. He also tells David that he is "a Tartar" - a violent person - who gets things done. When his own flesh and blood offends him, he'll get rid of it. Mr. Creakle asks Tungay if "that fellow" has been around Salem House? Tungay says no. Finally, Mr. Creakle says that David can go. David asks Mr. Creakle if he can take off the sign before the boys come back. Mr. Creakle leaps out of his chair, frightening David so much that he runs straight back to his bed. The following day, another teacher comes back: Mr. Sharp, who is Mr. Mell's superior. Mr. Sharp is delicate and wears a wig. The first boy to come back is Tommy Traddles, which is lucky for David, because Traddles doesn't take the sign too seriously, mostly just treating it like a game. This is a little embarrassing for David, but nothing like the social death he expected. Next up is James Steerforth, a good-looking older boy, who tells David that his sign is "a jolly shame" , which makes David adore him. Steerforth asks David if he has any money, which he does - 7 shillings from Peggotty's purse. The older boy encourages David to spend some of that money on treats for the other boys in their dorm room, which Steerforth then distributes as though he were their host. But David doesn't mind this - he's a bit in awe of Steerforth. The boys all start talking about the masters at Salem House: Mr. Creakle is, indeed, supposed to be a violent jerk who will happily beat the boys if he wants to. The wooden-legged man, Tungay, works for Mr. Creakle because he has been in his employment for a long time, mostly doing dirty work. Tungay hates everyone at Salem House, except Mr. Creakle, and enjoys making all of their lives miserable. Apparently, Mr. Creakle has a son who used to teach at the school, but Mr. Creakle tossed the boy out of his home when the kid protested at the way that Mr. Creakle treats Mrs. Creakle. There is one boy who Mr. Creakle never beats: James Steerforth. Steerforth is the only "parlor-boarder" - the only of the boys who gets to eat with Mr. Creakle - and he seems to have some sort of weird authority over both the teachers and the students alike. The boys all gossip about how poor Mr. Mell is and about Mr. Sharp's badly fitting wig. They also talk about Miss Creakle, who is supposed to have a crush on Steerforth. David thinks of the breakfast he had with Mr. Mell's mother, but doesn't say anything about it. When the boys all go to bed, Steerforth tells David good night, and that he'll take care of David. David thanks him. Steerforth asks if David has a sister, because if David does, Steerforth would guess that she would be a pretty, shy, bright girl. David says no, he doesn't, and Steerforth thinks it's a shame.