David Copperfield
Mr. Dick, and very solicitous for his welfare, my fears fa-
voured this supposition; and for a long time his Wednesday
hardly ever came round, without my entertaining a misgiv-
ing that he would not be on the coach-box as usual. There
he always appeared, however, grey-headed, laughing, and
happy; and he never had anything more to tell of the man
who could frighten my aunt.
These Wednesdays were the happiest days of Mr. Dick’s
life; they were far from being the least happy of mine. He
soon became known to every boy in the school; and though
he never took an active part in any game but kite-flying,
was as deeply interested in all our sports as anyone among
us. How often have I seen him, intent upon a match at mar-
bles or pegtop, looking on with a face of unutterable interest,
and hardly breathing at the critical times! How often, at
hare and hounds, have I seen him mounted on a little knoll,
cheering the whole field on to action, and waving his hat
above his grey head, oblivious of King Charles the Martyr’s
head, and all belonging to it! How many a summer hour
have I known to be but blissful minutes to him in the crick-
et-field! How many winter days have I seen him, standing
blue-nosed, in the snow and east wind, looking at the boys
going down the long slide, and clapping his worsted gloves
in rapture!
He was an universal favourite, and his ingenuity in little
things was transcendent. He could cut oranges into such
devices as none of us had an idea of. He could make a boat
out of anything, from a skewer upwards. He could turn
cramp-bones into chessmen; fashion Roman chariots from