strange to fill me with a dread that some other coincidence might at any moment connect me, in his hearing, with my name.  For this reason, I resolved to alight as soon as we touched the town, and put myself out of his hearing.  This device I executed successfully.  My little portmanteau was in the boot under my feet; I had but to turn a hinge to get it out:  I threw it down before me, got down after it, and was left at the first lamp on the first stones of the town pavement.  As to the convicts, they went their way with the coach, and I knew at what point they would be spirited off to the river.  In my fancy, I saw the boat with its convict crew waiting for them at the slime-washed stairs, — again heard the gruff “Give way, you!” like and order to dogs — again saw the wicked Noah’s Ark lying out on the black water.

I could not have said what I was afraid of, for my fear was altogether undefined and vague, but there was great fear upon me.  As I walked on to the hotel, I felt that a dread, much exceeding the mere apprehension of a painful or disagreeable recognition, made me tremble.  I am confident that it took no distinctness of shape, and that it was the revival for a few minutes of the terror of childhood.

The coffee-room at the Blue Boar was empty, and I had not only ordered my dinner there, but had sat down to it, before the waiter knew me.  As soon as he had apologized for the remissness of his memory, he asked me if he should send Boots for Mr. Pumblechook?

“No,” said I, “certainly not.”

The waiter (it was he who had brought up the Great Remonstrance from the Commercials, on the day when I was bound) appeared surprised, and took the earliest opportunity of putting a dirty old copy of a local newspaper so directly in my way, that I took it up and read this paragraph: 

Our readers will learn, not altogether without interest, in reference to the recent romantic rise in fortune of a young artificer in iron of this neighbourhood (what a theme, by the way, for the magic pen of our as yet not universally acknowledged townsman TOOBY, the poet of our columns!) that the youth’s earliest patron, companion, and friend, was a highly-respected individual not entirely unconnected with the corn and seed trade, and whose eminently convenient and commodious business premises are situate within a hundred miles of the High-street.  It is not wholly irrespective of our personal feelings that we record him as the Mentor of our young Telemachus, for it is good to know that our town produced the founder of the latter’s fortunes.  Does the thoughtcontracted brow of the local Sage or the lustrous eye of local Beauty inquire whose fortunes?  We believe that Quintin Matsys was the blacksmith of Antwerp.  Verb.  Sap.

I entertain a conviction, based upon large experience, that if in the days of my prosperity I had gone to the North Pole, I should have met somebody there, wandering Esquimaux or civilized man, who would have told me that Pumblechook was my earliest patron and the founder of my fortunes.