Mr. Pocket, Junior’s, idea of Shortly was not mine, for I had nearly maddened myself with looking out for half an hour, and had written my name with my finger several times in the dirt of every pane in the window, before I heard footsteps on the stairs.  Gradually there arose before me the hat, head, neckcloth, waistcoat, trousers, boots, of a member of society of about my own standing.  He had a paper-bag under each arm and a pottle of strawberries in one hand, and was out of breath.

“Mr. Pip?” said he.

“Mr. Pocket?” said I.

“Dear me!” he exclaimed.  “I am extremely sorry; but I knew there was a coach from your part of the country at midday, and I thought you would come by that one.  The fact is, I have been out on your account — not that that is any excuse — for I thought, coming from the country, you might like a little fruit after dinner, and I went to Covent Garden Market to get it good.”

For a reason that I had, I felt as if my eyes would start out of my head.  I acknowledged his attention incoherently, and began to think this was a dream.

“Dear me!” said Mr. Pocket, Junior.  “This door sticks so!”

As he was fast making jam of his fruit by wrestling with the door while the paper-bags were under his arms, I begged him to allow me to hold them.  He relinquished them with an agreeable smile, and combated with the door as if it were a wild beast.  It yielded so suddenly at last, that he staggered back upon me, and I staggered back upon the opposite door, and we both laughed.  But still I felt as if my eyes must start out of my head, and as if this must be a dream.

“Pray come in,” said Mr. Pocket, Junior.  “Allow me to lead the way.  I am rather bare here, but I hope you’ll be able to make out tolerably well till Monday.  My father thought you would get on more agreeably through to-morrow with me than with him, and might like to take a walk about London.  I am sure I shall be very happy to show London to you.  As to our table, you won’t find that bad, I hope, for it will be supplied from our coffee-house here, and (it is only right I should add) at your expense, such being Mr. Jaggers’s directions.  As to our lodging, it’s not by any means splendid, because I have my own bread to earn, and my father hasn’t anything to give me, and I shouldn’t be willing to take it, if he had.  This is our sitting-room — just such chairs and tables and carpet and so forth, you see, as they could spare from home.  You mustn’t give me credit for the tablecloth and spoons and castors, because they come for you from the coffee-house.  This is my little bedroom; rather musty, but Barnard’s is musty.  This is your bed-room; the furniture’s hired for the occasion, but I trust it will answer the purpose; if you should want anything, I’ll go and fetch it.  The chambers are retired, and we shall be alone together, but we shan’t fight, I dare say.  But, dear me, I beg your pardon, you’re holding the fruit all this time.  Pray let me take these bags from you.  I am quite ashamed.”