Mr. Pumblechook’s premises in the High-street
of the market town, were of a peppercorny and farinaceous
character, as the premises of a corn-chandler and
seedsman should be. It appeared to me that he
must be a very happy man indeed, to have so many little
drawers in his shop; and I wondered when I peeped
into one or two on the lower tiers, and saw the tied-up
brown paper packets inside, whether the flower-seeds
and bulbs ever wanted of a fine day to break out of
those jails, and bloom.
It was in the early morning after my arrival that
I entertained this speculation. On the previous
night, I had been sent straight to bed in an attic
with a sloping roof, which was so low in the corner
where the bedstead was, that I calculated the tiles
as being within a foot of my eyebrows. In the
same early morning, I discovered a singular affinity
between seeds and corduroys. Mr. Pumblechook
wore corduroys, and so did his shopman; and somehow,
there was a general air and flavour about the corduroys,
so much in the nature of seeds, and a general air
and flavour about the seeds, so much in the nature
of corduroys, that I hardly knew which was which.
The same opportunity served me for noticing that Mr.
Pumblechook appeared to conduct his business by looking
across the street at the saddler, who appeared to
transact his business by keeping his eye on the coach-maker,
who appeared to get on in life by putting his hands
in his pockets and contemplating the baker, who in
his turn folded his arms and stared at the grocer,
who stood at his door and yawned at the chemist.
The watch-maker, always poring over a little desk
with a magnifying glass at his eye, and always inspected
by a group of smock-frocks poring over him through
the glass of his shop-window, seemed to be about the
only person in the High-street whose trade engaged
his attention.
Mr. Pumblechook and I breakfasted at eight o’clock
in the parlour behind the shop, while the shopman
took his mug of tea and hunch of bread-and-butter
on a sack of peas in the front premises. I considered
Mr. Pumblechook wretched company. Besides being
possessed by my sister’s idea that a mortifying
and penitential character ought to be imparted to
my diet — besides giving me as much crumb as
possible in combination with as little butter, and
putting such a quantity of warm water into my milk
that it would have been more candid to have left the
milk out altogether — his conversation consisted
of nothing but arithmetic. On my politely bidding
him Good morning, he said, pompously, “Seven
times nine, boy?” And how should I be able
to answer, dodged in that way, in a strange place,
on an empty stomach! I was hungry, but before
I had swallowed a morsel, he began a running sum that
lasted all through the breakfast. “Seven?”
“And four?” “And eight?” “And
six?” “And two?” “And ten?”
And so on. And after each figure was disposed
of, it was as much as I could do to get a bite or
a sup, before the next came; while he sat at his ease
guessing nothing, and eating bacon and hot roll, in
(if I may be allowed the expression) a gorging and
gormandising manner.
