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look for the place where I had sat, in the sun and in the
shade, waiting for my money. When we came, at last, with-
in a stage of London, and passed the veritable Salem House
where Mr. Creakle had laid about him with a heavy hand,
I would have given all I had, for lawful permission to get
down and thrash him, and let all the boys out like so many
caged sparrows.
We went to the Golden Cross at Charing Cross, then a
mouldy sort of establishment in a close neighbourhood. A
waiter showed me into the coffee-room; and a chambermaid
introduced me to my small bedchamber, which smelt like a
hackney-coach, and was shut up like a family vault. I was
still painfully conscious of my youth, for nobody stood in
any awe of me at all: the chambermaid being utterly indif-
ferent to my opinions on any subject, and the waiter being
familiar with me, and offering advice to my inexperience.
‘Well now,’ said the waiter, in a tone of confidence, ‘what
would you like for dinner? Young gentlemen likes poultry
in general: have a fowl!’
I told him, as majestically as I could, that I wasn’t in the
humour for a fowl.
‘Ain’t you?’ said the waiter. ‘Young gentlemen is generally
tired of beef and mutton: have a weal cutlet!’
I assented to this proposal, in default of being able to
suggest anything else.
‘Do you care for taters?’ said the waiter, with an insin-
uating smile, and his head on one side. ‘Young gentlemen
generally has been overdosed with taters.’
I commanded him, in my deepest voice, to order a veal