more than ever; for the fact is—to tell you the truth—that I believe he looks to me to supply his defects, and couldn't afford to lose me. I had a notion of that, in first going there. Your health!"
"Thank you," returned young Westlock. "Yours. And may the new pupil turn out as well as you can desire!"
"What new pupil?"
"The fortunate youth, born under an auspicious star," returned John Westlock, laughing; "whose parents, or guardians, are destined to be hooked by the advertisement. What! don't you know that he has advertised again?"
"No."
"Oh, yes. I read it just before dinner in the old newspaper. I know it to be his; having some reason to remember the style. Hush! Here's Pinch. Strange, is it not, that the more he likes Pecksniff (if he can like him better than he does), the greater reason one has to like him? Not a word more, or we shall spoil his whole enjoyment."
Tom entered as the words were spoken, with a radiant smile upon his face; and rubbing his hands, more from a sense of delight than because he was cold (for he had been running fast), sat down in his warm corner again, and was as happy as—as only Tom Pinch could be. There is no other simile that will express his state of mind.
"And so," he said, when he had gazed at his friend for some time in silent pleasure, "so you really are a gentleman at last, John. Well, to be sure!"
"Trying to be, Tom; trying to be," he rejoined good-humouredly. "There is no saying what? may turn out, in time."
"I suppose you wouldn't carry your own box to the mail now," said Tom Pinch, smiling: "although you lost it altogether by not taking it."
"Wouldn't I?" retorted John. "That's all you know about it, Pinch. It must be a very heavy box that I wouldn't carry to get away from Pecksniff's, Tom."
"There!" cried Pinch, turning to Martin, "I told you so. The great fault in his character is his injustice to Pecksniff. You musn't mind a word he says on that subject. His prejudice is most extraordinary."
"The absence of anything like prejudice on Tom's part, you know," said John Westlock, laughing heartily, as he laid his hand on Mr. Pinch's shoulder, "is perfectly wonderful. If one man ever had a profound knowledge of another, and saw him in a true light, and in his own proper colours, Tom has that knowledge of Mr. Pecksniff."
"Why, of course I have," cried Tom. "That's exactly what I have so often said to you. If you knew him as well as I do—John, I'd give almost any money to bring that about—you'd admire, respect, and reverence him. You couldn't help it. Oh, how you wounded his feelings when you went away!"
"If I had known whereabout his feelings lay," retorted young Westlock, "I'd have done my best, Tom, with that end in view, you may depend upon it. But as I couldn't wound him in what he has not, and in what he knows nothing of, except in his ability to probe them to the quick in other people, I am afraid I can lay no claim to your compliment."
