emark into an indication of a wish that he should have
my place, so I blushingly offered to resign it.

'Well, if you don't mind, sir,' said William, 'I think it would be more
correct.'

I have always considered this as the first fall I had in life. When I
booked my place at the coach office I had had 'Box Seat' written against
the entry, and had given the book-keeper half-a-crown. I was got up in
a special great-coat and shawl, expressly to do honour to that
distinguished eminence; had glorified myself upon it a good deal; and
had felt that I was a credit to the coach. And here, in the very first
stage, I was supplanted by a shabby man with a squint, who had no other
merit than smelling like a livery-stables, and being able to walk across
me, more like a fly than a human being, while the horses were at a
canter!

A distrust of myself, which has often beset me in life on small
occasions, when it would have been better away, was assuredly not
stopped in its growth by this little incident outside the Canterbury
coach. It was in vain to take refuge in gruffness of speech. I spoke
from the pit of my stomach for the rest of the journey, but I felt
completely extinguished, and dreadfully young.

It was curious and interesting, nevertheless, to be sitting up there
behind four horses: well educated, well dressed, and with plenty of
money in my pocket; and to look out for the places where I had slept on
my weary journey. I had abundant occupation for my thoughts, in every
conspicuous landmark on the road. When I looked down at the trampers
whom we passed, and saw that well-remembered style of face turned up,
I felt as if the tinker's blackened hand were in the bosom of my shirt
again. When we clattered through the narrow street of Chatham, and I
caught a glimpse, in passing, of the lane where the old monster lived
who had bought my jacket, I stretched my neck eagerly to look for the
place where I had sat, in the sun and in the shade, waiting for my
money. When we came, at last, within a stage of London, and passed the
veritable Salem House where Mr. Creakle had laid about him with a heavy
hand, I would have given all I had, for lawful permission to get down
and thrash him, and let all the boys out like so many caged sparrows.

We went to the Golden Cross at Charing Cross, then a mouldy sort of
establishment in a close neighbourhood. A waiter showed me into the
coffee-room; and a chambermaid introduced me to my small bedcham