Chapter: In due time, Mr. Micawber's petition was ripe for hearing; and that
gentleman was ordered to be discharged under the Act, to my great joy.
His creditors were not implacable; and Mrs. Micawber informed me that
even the revengeful boot-maker had declared in open court that he bore
him no malice, but that when money was owing to him he liked to be paid.
He said he thought it was human nature.

Mr. Micawber returned to the King's Bench when his case was over, as
some fees were to be settled, and some formalities observed, before he
could be actually released. The club received him with transport, and
held an harmonic meeting that evening in his honour; while Mrs. Micawber
and I had a lamb's fry in private, surrounded by the sleeping family.

'On such an occasion I will give you, Master Copperfield,' said Mrs.
Micawber, 'in a little more flip,' for we had been having some already,
'the memory of my papa and mama.'

'Are they dead, ma'am?' I inquired, after drinking the toast in a
wine-glass.

'My mama departed this life,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'before Mr. Micawber's
difficulties commenced, or at least before they became pressing. My papa
lived to bail Mr. Micawber several times, and then expired, regretted by
a numerous circle.'

Mrs. Micawber shook her head, and dropped a pious tear upon the twin who
happened to be in hand.

As I could hardly hope for a more favourable opportunity of putting a
question in which I had a near interest, I said to Mrs. Micawber:

'May I ask, ma'am, what you and Mr. Micawber intend to do, now that Mr.
Micawber is out of his difficulties, and at liberty? Have you settled
yet?'

'My family,' said Mrs. Micawber, who always said those two words with an
air, though I never could discover who came under the denomination, 'my
family are of opinion that Mr. Micawber should quit London, and exert
his talents in the country. Mr. Micawber is a man of great talent,
Master Copperfield.'

I said I was sure of that.

'Of great talent,' repeated Mrs. Micawber. 'My family are of opinion,
that, with a little interest, something might be done for a man of his
ability in the Custom House. The influence of my family being local, it
is their wish that Mr. Micawber should go down to Plymouth. They think
it indispensable that he should be upon the spot.'

'That he may be ready?' I suggested.

'Exactly,' returned Mrs. Micawber. 'That he may be ready--in case of
anything turning up.'

'And do you go too, ma'am?'

The events of the day, in combination with the twins, if not with the
flip, had made Mrs. Micawber hysterical, and she shed tears as she
replied:

'I never will desert Mr. Micawber. Mr. Micawber may have concealed his
difficulties from me in the first instance, but his sanguine temper may
have led him to expect that he would overcome them. The pearl necklace
and bracelets which I inherited from mama, have been disposed of for
less than half their value; and the set of coral, which was the wedding
gift of my papa, has been actually thrown away for nothing. But I never
will desert Mr. Micawber. No!' cried Mrs. Micawber, more affected than
before, 'I never will do it! It's of no use asking me!'

I felt quite uncomfortable--as if Mrs. Micawber supposed I had asked her
to do anything of the sort!--and sat looking at her in alarm.

'Mr. Micawber has his faults. I do not deny that he is improvident. I
do not deny that he has kept me in the dark as to his resources and his
liabilities both,' she went on, looking at the wall; 'but I never will
desert Mr. Micawber!'

Mrs. Micawber having now raised her voice into a perfect scream, I
was so frightened that I ran off to the club-room, and disturbed Mr.
Micawber in the act of presiding at a long table, and leading the chorus
of

     Gee up, Dobbin,
     Gee ho, Dobbin,
     Gee up, Dobbin,
     Gee up, and gee ho--o--o!

with the tidings that Mrs. Micawber was in an alarming state, upon
which he immediately burst into tears, and came away with me with his
waistcoat full of the heads and tails of shrimps, of which he had been
partaking.

'Emma, my angel!' cried Mr. Micawber, running into the room; 'what is
the matter?'

'I never will desert you, Micawber!' she exclaimed.

'My life!' said Mr. Micawber, taking her in his arms. 'I am perfectly
aware of it.'

'He is the parent of my children! He is the father of my twins! He is
the husband of my affections,' cried Mrs. Micawber, struggling; 'and I
ne--ver--will--desert Mr. Micawber!'

Mr. Micawber was so deeply affected by this proof of her devotion (as
to me, I was dissolved in tears), that he hung over her in a passionate
manner, imploring her to look up, and to be calm. But the more he asked
Mrs. Micawber to look up, the more she fixed her eyes on nothing;
and the more he asked her to compose herself, the more she wouldn't.
Consequently Mr. Micawber was soon so overcome, that he mingled his
tears with hers and mine; until he begged me to do him the favour of
taking a chair on the staircase, while he got her into bed. I would have
taken my leave for the night, but he would not hear of my doing that
until the strangers' bell should ring. So I sat at the staircase window,
until he came out with another chair and joined me.

'How is Mrs. Micawber now, sir?' I said.

'Very low,' said Mr. Micawber, shaking his head; 'reaction. Ah, this has
been a dreadful day! We stand alone now--everything is gone from us!'

Mr. Micawber pressed my hand, and groaned, and afterwards shed tears.
I was greatly touched, and disappointed too, for I had expected that we
should be quite gay on this happy and long-looked-for occasion. But Mr.
and Mrs. Micawber were so used to their old difficulties, I think, that
they felt quite shipwrecked when they came to consider that they were
released from them. All their elasticity was departed, and I never saw
them half so wretched as on this night; insomuch that when the bell
rang, and Mr. Micawber walked with me to the lodge, and parted from me
there with a blessing, I felt quite afraid to leave him by himself, he
was so profoundly miserable.

But through all the confusion and lowness of spirits in which we had
been, so unexpectedly to me, involved, I plainly discerned that Mr. and
Mrs. Micawber and their family were going away from London, and that a
parting between us was near at hand. It was in my walk home that night,
and in the sleepless hours which followed when I lay in bed, that the
thought first occurred to me--though I don't know how it came into my
head--which afterwards shaped itself into a settled resolution.

I had grown to be so accustomed to the Micawbers, and had been so
intimate with them in their distresses, and was so utterly friendless
without them, that the prospect of being thrown upon some new shift for
a lodging, and going once more among unknown people, was like being that
moment turned adrift into my present life, with such a knowledge of it
ready made as experience had given me. All the sensitive feelings it
wounded so cruelly, all the shame and misery it kept alive within my
breast, became more poignant as I thought of this; and I determined that
the life was unendurable.

That there was no hope of escape from it, unless the escape was my own
act, I knew quite well. I rarely heard from Miss Murdstone, and never
from Mr. Murdstone: but two or three parcels of made or mended clothes
had come up for me, consigned to Mr. Quinion, and in each there was
a scrap of paper to the effect that J. M. trusted D. C. was applying
himself to business, and devoting himself wholly to his duties--not the
least hint of my ever being anything else than the common drudge into
which I was fast settling down.

The very next day showed me, while my mind was in the first agitation of
what it had conceived, that Mrs. Micawber had not spoken of their going
away without warrant. They took a lodging in the house where I lived,
for a week; at the expiration of which time they were to start for
Plymouth. Mr. Micawber himself came down to the counting-house, in the
afternoon, to tell Mr. Quinion that he must relinquish me on the day
of his departure, and to give me a high character, which I am sure I
deserved. And Mr. Quinion, calling in Tipp the carman, who was a married
man, and had a room to let, quartered me prospectively on him--by our
mutual consent, as he had every reason to think; for I said nothing,
though my resolution was now taken.

I passed my evenings with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, during the remaining
term of our residence under the same roof; and I think we became fonder
of one another as the time went on. On the last Sunday, they invited me
to dinner; and we had a loin of pork and apple sauce, and a pudding. I
had bought a spotted wooden horse over-night as a parting gift to little
Wilkins Micawber--that was the boy--and a doll for little Emma. I had
also bestowed a shilling on the Orfling, who was about to be disbanded.

We had a very pleasant day, though we were all in a tender state about
our approaching separation.

'I shall never, Master Copperfield,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'revert to the
period when Mr. Micawber was in difficulties, without thinking of
you. Your conduct has always been of the most delicate and obliging
description. You have never been a lodger. You have been a friend.'

'My dear,' said Mr. Micawber; 'Copperfield,' for so he had been
accustomed to call me, of late, 'has a heart to feel for the distresses
of his fellow-creatures when they are behind a cloud, and a head to
plan, and a hand to--in short, a general ability to dispose of such
available property as could be made away with.'

I expressed my sense of this commendation, and said I was very sorry we
were going to lose one another.

'My dear young friend,' said Mr. Micawber, 'I am older than you; a man
of some experience in life, and--and of some experience, in short, in
difficulties, generally speaking. At present, and until something turns
up (which I am, I may say, hourly expecting), I have nothing to bestow
but advice. Still my advice is so far worth taking, that--in short, that
I have never taken it myself, and am the'--here Mr. Micawber, who had
been beaming and smiling, all over his head and face, up to the present
moment, checked himself and frowned--'the miserable wretch you behold.'

'My dear Micawber!' urged his wife.

'I say,' returned Mr. Micawber, quite forgetting himself, and smiling
again, 'the miserable wretch you behold. My advice is, never do tomorrow
what you can do today. Procrastination is the thief of time. Collar
him!'

'My poor papa's maxim,' Mrs. Micawber observed.

'My dear,' said Mr. Micawber, 'your papa was very well in his way, and
Heaven forbid that I should disparage him. Take him for all in all, we
ne'er shall--in short, make the acquaintance, probably, of anybody else
possessing, at his time of life, the same legs for gaiters, and able to
read the same description of print, without spectacles. But he applied
that maxim to our marriage, my dear; and that was so far prematurely
entered into, in consequence, that I never recovered the expense.' Mr.
Micawber looked aside at Mrs. Micawber, and added: 'Not that I am sorry
for it. Quite the contrary, my love.' After which, he was grave for a
minute or so.

'My other piece of advice, Copperfield,' said Mr. Micawber, 'you know.
Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen and
six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure
twenty pounds ought and six, result misery. The blossom is blighted,
the leaf is withered, the god of day goes down upon the dreary scene,
and--and in short you are for ever floored. As I am!'

To make his example the more impressive, Mr. Micawber drank a glass of
punch with an air of great enjoyment and satisfaction, and whistled the
College Hornpipe.

I did not fail to assure him that I would store these precepts in my
mind, though indeed I had no need to do so, for, at the time, they
affected me visibly. Next morning I met the whole family at the coach
office, and saw them, with a desolate heart, take their places outside,
at the back.

'Master Copperfield,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'God bless you! I never can
forget all that, you know, and I never would if I could.'

'Copperfield,' said Mr. Micawber, 'farewell! Every happiness and
prosperity! If, in the progress of revolving years, I could persuade
myself that my blighted destiny had been a warning to you, I should feel
that I had not occupied another man's place in existence altogether in
vain. In case of anything turning up (of which I am rather confident),
I shall be extremely happy if it should be in my power to improve your
prospects.'

I think, as Mrs. Micawber sat at the back of the coach, with the
children, and I stood in the road looking wistfully at them, a mist
cleared from her eyes, and she saw what a little creature I really was.
I think so, because she beckoned to me to climb up, with quite a new and
motherly expression in her face, and put her arm round my neck, and gave
me just such a kiss as she might have given to her own boy. I had barely
time to get down again before the coach started, and I could hardly see
the family for the handkerchiefs they waved. It was gone in a minute.
The Orfling and I stood looking vacantly at each other in the middle
of the road, and then shook hands and said good-bye; she going back,
I suppose, to St. Luke's workhouse, as I went to begin my weary day at
Murdstone and Grinby's.

But with no intention of passing many more weary days there. No. I had
resolved to run away.---To go, by some means or other, down into the
country, to the only relation I had in the world, and tell my story to
my aunt, Miss Betsey. I have already observed that I don't know how this
desperate idea came into my brain. But, once there, it remained there;
and hardened into a purpose than which I have never entertained a more
determined purpose in my life. I am far from sure that I believed there
was anything hopeful in it, but my mind was thoroughly made up that it
must be carried into execution.

Again, and again, and a hundred times again, since the night when the
thought had first occurred to me and banished sleep, I had gone over
that old story of my poor mother's about my birth, which it had been one
of my great delights in the old time to hear her tell, and which I knew
by heart. My aunt walked into that story, and walked out of it, a dread
and awful personage; but there was one little trait in her behaviour
which I liked to dwell on, and which gave me some faint shadow of
encouragement. I could not forget how my mother had thought that she
felt her touch her pretty hair with no ungentle hand; and though it
might have been altogether my mother's fancy, and might have had no
foundation whatever in fact, I made a little picture, out of it, of my
terrible aunt relenting towards the girlish beauty that I recollected so
well and loved so much, which softened the whole narrative. It is very
possible that it had been in my mind a long time, and had gradually
engendered my determination.

As I did not even know where Miss Betsey lived, I wrote a long letter
to Peggotty, and asked her, incidentally, if she remembered; pretending
that I had heard of such a lady living at a certain place I named at
random, and had a curiosity to know if it were the same. In the course
of that letter, I told Peggotty that I had a particular occasion for
half a guinea; and that if she could lend me that sum until I could
repay it, I should be very much obliged to her, and would tell her
afterwards what I had wanted it for.

Peggotty's answer soon arrived, and was, as usual, full of affectionate
devotion. She enclosed the half guinea (I was afraid she must have had
a world of trouble to get it out of Mr. Barkis's box), and told me that
Miss Betsey lived near Dover, but whether at Dover itself, at Hythe,
Sandgate, or Folkestone, she could not say. One of our men, however,
informing me on my asking him about these places, that they were all
close together, I deemed this enough for my object, and resolved to set
out at the end of that week.

Being a very honest little creature, and unwilling to disgrace the
memory I was going to leave behind me at Murdstone and Grinby's, I
considered myself bound to remain until Saturday night; and, as I had
been paid a week's wages in advance when I first came there, not to
present myself in the counting-house at the usual hour, to receive my
stipend. For this express reason, I had borrowed the half-guinea, that
I might not be without a fund for my travelling-expenses. Accordingly,
when the Saturday night came, and we were all waiting in the warehouse
to be paid, and Tipp the carman, who always took precedence, went in
first to draw his money, I shook Mick Walker by the hand; asked him,
when it came to his turn to be paid, to say to Mr. Quinion that I had
gone to move my box to Tipp's; and, bidding a last good night to Mealy
Potatoes, ran away.

My box was at my old lodging, over the water, and I had written a
direction for it on the back of one of our address cards that we nailed
on the casks: 'Master David, to be left till called for, at the Coach
Office, Dover.' This I had in my pocket ready to put on the box, after I
should have got it out of the house; and as I went towards my lodging,
I looked about me for someone who would help me to carry it to the
booking-office.

There was a long-legged young man with a very little empty donkey-cart,
standing near the Obelisk, in the Blackfriars Road, whose eye I caught
as I was going by, and who, addressing me as 'Sixpenn'orth of bad
ha'pence,' hoped 'I should know him agin to swear to'--in allusion, I
have no doubt, to my staring at him. I stopped to assure him that I had
not done so in bad manners, but uncertain whether he might or might not
like a job.

'Wot job?' said the long-legged young man.

'To move a box,' I answered.

'Wot box?' said the long-legged young man.

I told him mine, which was down that street there, and which I wanted
him to take to the Dover coach office for sixpence.

'Done with you for a tanner!' said the long-legged young man, and
directly got upon his cart, which was nothing but a large wooden tray on
wheels, and rattled away at such a rate, that it was as much as I could
do to keep pace with the donkey.

There was a defiant manner about this young man, and particularly about
the way in which he chewed straw as he spoke to me, that I did not much
like; as the bargain was made, however, I took him upstairs to the room
I was leaving, and we brought the box down, and put it on his cart.
Now, I was unwilling to put the direction-card on there, lest any of my
landlord's family should fathom what I was doing, and detain me; so
I said to the young man that I would be glad if he would stop for a
minute, when he came to the dead-wall of the King's Bench prison. The
words were no sooner out of my mouth, than he rattled away as if he, my
box, the cart, and the donkey, were all equally mad; and I was quite out
of breath with running and calling after him, when I caught him at the
place appointed.

Being much flushed and excited, I tumbled my half-guinea out of my
pocket in pulling the card out. I put it in my mouth for safety, and
though my hands trembled a good deal, had just tied the card on very
much to my satisfaction, when I felt myself violently chucked under the
chin by the long-legged young man, and saw my half-guinea fly out of my
mouth into his hand.

'Wot!' said the young man, seizing me by my jacket collar, with a
frightful grin. 'This is a pollis case, is it? You're a-going to bolt,
are you? Come to the pollis, you young warmin, come to the pollis!'

'You give me my money back, if you please,' said I, very much
frightened; 'and leave me alone.'

'Come to the pollis!' said the young man. 'You shall prove it yourn to
the pollis.'

'Give me my box and money, will you,' I cried, bursting into tears.

The young man still replied: 'Come to the pollis!' and was dragging me
against the donkey in a violent manner, as if there were any affinity
between that animal and a magistrate, when he changed his mind, jumped
into the cart, sat upon my box, and, exclaiming that he would drive to
the pollis straight, rattled away harder than ever.

I ran after him as fast as I could, but I had no breath to call out
with, and should not have dared to call out, now, if I had. I narrowly
escaped being run over, twenty times at least, in half a mile. Now I
lost him, now I saw him, now I lost him, now I was cut at with a whip,
now shouted at, now down in the mud, now up again, now running into
somebody's arms, now running headlong at a post. At length, confused by
fright and heat, and doubting whether half London might not by this time
be turning out for my apprehension, I left the young man to go where
he would with my box and money; and, panting and crying, but never
stopping, faced about for Greenwich, which I had understood was on
the Dover Road: taking very little more out of the world, towards the
retreat of my aunt, Miss Betsey, than I had brought into it, on the
night when my arrival gave her so much umbrage.

 Mr. Micawber manages to make deals with his creditors, and he is released from debtors prison. Mr. Micawber has to spend a little more time at the prison because there are fees to be settled, but he's going to go free soon. Back at the prison, Mr. Micawber celebrates with his club while David and Mrs. Micawber toast Mr. Micawber's freedom together. David asks Mrs. Micawber what Mr. Micawber plans to do now. Mrs. Micawber tells David that her family has suggested Mr. Micawber leave London for Plymouth . David asks Mrs. Micawber if she will accompany Mr. Micawber back to Plymouth. Mrs. Micawber weeps as she informs David that she will never leave Mr. Micawber: yes, perhaps they have had to hock all of their precious possessions, including the things she inherited from her parents, but she will stand by her man! Mrs. Micawber gets more and more upset as she assures David she'll never leave Mr. Micawber. Finally, she gets so loud in her protests that she frightens David, and he runs off to find Mr. Micawber with his club. There, David tells Mr. Micawber that Mrs. Micawber seems to be in hysterics, and Mr. Micawber bursts into tears. Mr. Micawber runs to Mrs. Micawber and asks what is wrong. Mrs. Micawber promises Mr. Micawber that she will never desert him. Mr. Micawber is so moved by her devotion that he keeps begging her to be calm. David, meanwhile, starts to cry. And Mrs. Micawber is so emotional that she makes Mr. Micawber weep again. So Mr. Micawber, Mrs. Micawber, and David all cry together for a time. Then, Mr. Micawber goes to put Mrs. Micawber to bed, and David waits for him. Eventually, Mr. Micawber emerges and tells David that Mrs. Micawber is very sad. The problem is that the Micawbers have gotten so used to their troubles that they don't know how to face their new freedom. David is so confused and miserable to think that the Micawbers will soon leave London that he doesn't know what to do. Late that night, he has a sudden idea: he realizes that he can't survive London without the Micawbers. So he has to escape, too. He knows that the Murdstones don't care. He's received a couple of parcels from Mr. Murdstone containing clothes, but there is no sign that the Murdstones expect him to become anything other than a drudge toiling away in that warehouse. Mr. Micawber comes in to the counting house the next day to explain to Quinion that he is going to Plymouth and can no longer be responsible for David's rooms. Quinion puts David up in the house of one of the other warehouse workers. On the Micawbers' last day in London, they have dinner together, and David brings over presents for the kids. The Orfling is also there to say goodbye, since she now has to find another place of employment. Mrs. Micawber promises that she will always think fondly of David: he has been a true friend to the Micawbers. Mr. Micawber also tells David that he is amazingly sympathetic and compassionate. David's only landlord also has a bit of advice for him: never procrastinate! And also - never get into debt! Debt makes you totally miserable. Mrs. Micawber gives David a motherly hug and the family drives away in a coach to Plymouth. The Orfling and David shake hands and go their separate ways. David returns to Murdstone and Grinby's wine warehouse. But he doesn't plan to stay at the warehouse for much longer: David is going to run away. He wants to go and find his aunt, Miss Betsey Trotwood. David has heard of her in the story of his birth . He imagines his aunt touching his mother's hair and feeling sympathy for her girlish beauty. He starts to wonder if his aunt might have some pity for him. Slowly, David becomes determined to run away to Miss Betsey. David writes to Peggotty and drops hints to try and work out where Miss Betsey lives. He also asks if he can borrow a little money. Peggotty writes back that Miss Betsey lives near Dover , but she's not sure exactly where. She also includes some cash for David. David feels that he has to stay at the warehouse until Saturday night because he has been paid in advance for his labor. Saturday night, when they're all lined up to get paid for their work, David shakes hands with Mick Walker, says good night to Mealy Potatoes, and runs away. David finds a boy next to a donkey cart near the house where he's staying. David tries to hire the boy to help him carry his trunk to the coach office. The boy does take the trunk according to David's instructions. Unfortunately, the boy also sees the money David borrowed from Peggotty, which David drops. The boy grabs David's cash. The boy accuses David of running away on "a pollis case" -- a case for the police. He says that David has to prove it's his money at the police station. David bursts into tears and demands his cash back. The boy starts to drag David off when he suddenly changes his mind, jumps on his cart, and drives away with David's trunk and money in hand. David runs after the boy's cart, but he can't keep up. Finally, with very little left in his possession, David sets out on the road he thinks leads to Dover.

