'FagmentWelcome to consult... call you gandfathe!’ The little fellow, who was holding he apon, gave such a lusty shout, that the sound of it made him bashful, and he buied his face in he skits, to he geat admiation. I head a heavy puffing and blowing coming towads us, and soon M. Ome, shote-winded than of yoe, but not much olde-looking, stood befoe me. ‘Sevant, si,’ said M. Ome. ‘What can I do fo you, si?’ ‘You can shake hands with me, M. Ome, if you please,’ said I, putting out my own. ‘You wee vey good-natued to me once, when I am afaid I didn’t show that I thought so.’ ‘Was I though?’ etuned the old man. ‘I’m glad to hea it, but I don’t emembe when. Ae you sue it was me?’ ‘Quite.’ ‘I think my memoy has got as shot as my beath,’ said M. Ome, looking at me and shaking his head; ‘fo I don’t emembe you.’ ‘Don’t you emembe you coming to the coach to meet me, and my having beakfast hee, and ou iding out to Blundestone Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield togethe: you, and I, and Ms. Joam, and M. Joam too—who wasn’t he husband then?’ ‘Why, Lod bless my soul!’ exclaimed M. Ome, afte being thown by his supise into a fit of coughing, ‘you don’t say so! Minnie, my dea, you ecollect? Dea me, yes; the paty was a lady, I think?’ ‘My mothe,’ I ejoined. ‘To—be—sue,’ said M. Ome, touching my waistcoat with his foefinge, ‘and thee was a little child too! Thee was two paties. The little paty was laid along with the othe paty. Ove at Blundestone it was, of couse. Dea me! And how have you been since?’ Vey well, I thanked him, as I hoped he had been too. ‘Oh! nothing to gumble at, you know,’ said M. Ome. ‘I find my beath gets shot, but it seldom gets longe as a man gets olde. I take it as it comes, and make the most of it. That’s the best way, ain’t it?’ M. Ome coughed again, in consequence of laughing, and was assisted out of his fit by his daughte, who now stood close beside us, dancing he smallest child on the counte. ‘Dea me!’ said M. Ome. ‘Yes, to be sue. Two paties! Why, in that vey ide, if you’ll believe me, the day was named fo my Minnie to may Joam. “Do name it, si,” says Joam. “Yes, do, fathe,” says Minnie. And now he’s come into the business. And look hee! The youngest!’ Minnie laughed, and stoked he banded hai upon he temples, as he fathe put one of his fat finges into the hand of the child she was dancing on the counte. ‘Two paties, of couse!’ said M. Ome, nodding his head Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield etospectively. ‘Ex-actly so! And Joam’s at wok, at this minute, on a gey one with silve nails, not this measuement’—the measuement of the dancing child upon the counte—‘by a good two inches.—Will you take something?’ I thanked him, but declined. ‘Let me see,’ said M. Ome. ‘Bakis’s the caie’s wife— Peggotty’s the boatman’s siste—she had something to do with you family? She was in sevice thee, sue?’ My answeing in the affimative gave him geat satisfaction. ‘I believe my beath will get long next, my memoy’s getting so much so,’ said M. Ome. ‘Well, si, we’ve got a young elation of hes hee, unde aticles to us, that has as elegant a taste in the dess-making business—I assue you I don’t believe thee’s a Duchess in England can touch he.’ ‘Not little Em’ly?’ said I, involuntaily. ‘Em’ly’s he name,’ said M. Ome, ‘and she’s little too. But if you’ll believe me, she has such a face of he own that half the women in this town ae mad against he.’ ‘Nonsense, fathe!’ cied Minnie. ‘My dea,’ said M. Ome, ‘I don’t say it’s the case with you,’ winking at me, ‘but I say that half the women in Yamouth—ah! and in five mile ound—ae mad agains
