"Come," cried Solomon Gills, "we must finish the bottle."
"Stand by!" said Captain Cuttle, filling his glass again. "Give the boy
some more."
"Yes," said Sol, "a little more. We'll finish the bottle to the
House,--Walter's house. Why, it may be his house one of these days, in
part. Who knows? Sir Richard Whittington married his master's daughter."
"Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, and when you are old,
you will never depart from it," interposed the Captain. "Wal'r, overhaul
the book, my lad!"
"And although Mr. Dombey hasn't a daughter--" Sol began.
"Yes, yes, he has, uncle," said the boy, reddening and laughing. "I know
he has. Some of them were talking about it in the office to-day. And
they do say that he's taken a dislike to her, and that she's left
unnoticed among the servants, while he thinks of no one but his son.
That's what they say. Of course I don't know."
"He knows all about her already, you see," said the instrument-maker.
"Nonsense, uncle," cried the boy reddening again; "how can I help
hearing what they tell me?"
"The son's a little in our way at present, I'm afraid," added the old
man, humoring the joke. "Nevertheless, we'll drink to him," pursued Sol.
"So, here's to Dombey and Son."
"Oh, very well, uncle," said the boy merrily. "Since you have introduced
the mention of her, and have said that I know all about her, I shall
make bold to amend the toast.
Pages:
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188