ump was
aristocratic and presumed itself to be a Fountain. It was dingy and
broken now, but the Pump was none the less proud and dignified; it took
pleasure in holding out its handle stiffly and never letting it down
though people stumbled against it every day. "It had been there the
longest," the Pump said, "it had a right to the way; people must learn
to turn out for it."

It was down this Fountain Court--though people now generally called it
Pump Court--that little Peter Mit ran as fast as his legs could carry
him. He stopped at the fourth house on the right-hand side; it was a low
building, only a story and a half high, yet a respectable merchant had
lived there formerly. Before the door stood a battered wooden image of a
savage Indian, holding out a bunch of cigars in his hand, and looking as
if he meant to tomahawk you if you didn't take one. The Indian was quite
stuck over with snow-balls, for he was a fine mark for the boys in the
court, who divided their attention between his head and the knob on top
of the Pump. If it were not so dark, one might spell out on the dingy
sign over the door, the names "MORGRIDGE AND MIT DEALERS IN TOBACCO."
The only window was adorned with half a dozen boxes of cigars, a few
pipes, a bottle of snuff, and a melancholy plaister sailor, who had been
smoking one pipe, with his hands in his pockets, as long as the oldest
inhabitant in the court could remember.

Peter Mit opened the door from the street and entered the shop; one
solitary oil lamp stood upon the counter, behind which sat David
Morgridge, the surviving partner of the firm of Morgridge and Mit
Dealers in Tobacco. Solomon Mit, the uncle of little Peter had been dead
five years, and on dying had bequeathed his orphan-nephew to his
partner, and so as Mr. Morgridge had no children, and Peter had no
father, the two lived together alone in the old house.

Mr. Morgridge was not a talkative man--one would see that at a glance;
his mouth looked as if it shut with a spring. Mr. Mit, when living had
been even more silent, but when he did speak--then one would look for
golden words; for so small a man he was surely very wise. Mr. Morgridge
used to say that it was because his name was Solomon, and that was the
only thing Mr. Morgridge had ever said that came near being witty. All
the court knew it, and the saying almost turned the corner at the head
of the court. They divided the business between them Mr. Morgridge
attending to the