me that Bob Sawyer's
room was the first floor back. I looked in at it, but seeing no one there
whom I knew, I bought tuppence worth of pigtail in lieu of fee, and came
away.

If a man wished to abstract himself from the world, to remove himself
from temptation, to place himself beyond the possibility of desire to
look out of the window, he should live in Lant Street, said a great
novelist. David Copperfield lodged here when he ordered that glass of
Genuine Stunning Ale at the Red Lion and excited the sympathy of the
landlord, winning a motherly kiss from his wife.

The Red Lion still crouches (under another name) at the corner of Derby
and Parliament Streets, Westminster. I daydreamed there for an hour one
morning, pretending the while to read a newspaper. I can not, however,
recommend their ale as particularly stunning.

As there are authors of one book, so are there readers of one
author--more than we wist. Children want the same bear story over and
over, preferring it to a new one; so "grown-ups" often prefer the
dog-eared book to uncut leaves.

Mr. Hawkins preferred the dog-eared, and at the station-house, where many
times he had long hours to wait in anticipation of a hurry-up call, he
whiled away the time by browsing in his Dickens. He knew no other author,
neither did he wish to. His epidermis was soaked with Dickensology, and
when inspired by gin and bitters he emitted information at every pore. To
him all these bodiless beings of Dickens' brain were living creatures. An
anachronism was nothing to Hawkins. Charley Bates was still at large,
Quilp was just around the corner, and Gaffer Hexam's boat was moored in
the muddy river below.

Dickens used to haunt the publics, those curious resting-places where all
sorts and conditions of thirsty philosophers meet to discuss all sorts of
themes. My guide took me to many of these inns which the great novelist
frequented, and we always had one legend with every drink. After we had
called at three or four different snuggeries, Hawkins would begin to
shake out the facts.

Now, it is not generally known that the so-called stories of Dickens are
simply records of historic events, like What-do-you-call-um's plays! F'r
instance, Dombey and Son was a well-known firm, who carried over into a
joint stock company only a few years ago. The concern is now known as The
Dombey Trading Company; they occupy the same quarters that were used by
their illustrious predecessors.

I s