"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 to-morrow, 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?" enquired the lady.
"Copperfield, ma'am," I said.
