Hereupon Startop took him in hand, though with a much
better grace than I had shown, and exhorted him to
be a little more agreeable. Startop, being a
lively bright young fellow, and Drummle being the
exact opposite, the latter was always disposed to resent
him as a direct personal affront. He now retorted
in a coarse lumpish way, and Startop tried to turn
the discussion aside with some small pleasantry that
made us all laugh. Resenting this little success
more than anything, Drummle, without any threat or
warning, pulled his hands out of his pockets, dropped
his round shoulders, swore, took up a large glass,
and would have flung it at his adversary’s head,
but for our entertainer’s dexterously seizing
it at the instant when it was raised for that purpose.
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Jaggers, deliberately
putting down the glass, and hauling out his gold repeater
by its massive chain, “I am exceedingly sorry
to announce that it’s half-past nine.”
On this hint we all rose to depart. Before we
got to the street door, Startop was cheerily calling
Drummle “old boy,” as if nothing had happened.
But the old boy was so far from responding, that he
would not even walk to Hammersmith on the same side
of the way; so, Herbert and I, who remained in town,
saw them going down the street on opposite sides;
Startop leading, and Drummle lagging behind in the
shadow of the houses, much as he was wont to follow
in his boat.
As the door was not yet shut, I thought I would leave
Herbert there for a moment, and run up-stairs again
to say a word to my guardian. I found him in
his dressing-room surrounded by his stock of boots,
already hard at it, washing his hands of us.
I told him I had come up again to say how sorry I
was that anything disagreeable should have occurred,
and that I hoped he would not blame me much.
“Pooh!” said he, sluicing his face, and
speaking through the water-drops; “it’s
nothing, Pip. I like that Spider though.”
He had turned towards me now, and was shaking his
head, and blowing, and towelling himself.
“I am glad you like him, sir,” said I
— “but I don’t.”
“No, no,” my guardian assented; “don’t
have too much to do with him. Keep as clear
of him as you can. But I like the fellow, Pip;
he is one of the true sort. Why, if I was a fortune-teller—”
Looking out of the towel, he caught my eye.
“But I am not a fortune-teller,” he said,
letting his head drop into a festoon of towel, and
towelling away at his two ears. “You know
what I am, don’t you? Good-night, Pip.”
“Good-night, sir.”
In about a month after that, the Spider’s time
with Mr. Pocket was up for good, and, to the great
relief of all the house but Mrs. Pocket, he went home
to the family hole.
“My dear Mr pip,
