Дэвид Копперфильд

I Begin Life on My Own Account, and Don’t Like it

           

           MurdstoneandGrinby’stradewasamongagoodmanykindsofpeople,butanimportantbranchofitwasthesupplyofwinesandspiritstocertainpacketships.Iforgetnowwheretheychieflywent,butIthinkthereweresomeamongthemthatmadevoyagesbothtotheEastandWestIndies.Iknowthatagreatmanyemptybottleswereoneoftheconsequencesofthistraffic,andthatcertainmenandboyswereemployedtoexaminethemagainstthelight,andrejectthosethatwereflawed,andtorinseandwashthem.Whentheemptybottlesranshort,therewerelabelstobepastedonfullones,orcorkstobefittedtothem,orsealstobeputuponthecorks,orfinishedbottlestobepackedincasks.Allthisworkwasmywork,andoftheboysemployeduponitIwasone.

           Therewerethreeorfourofus,countingme.Myworkingplacewasestablishedinacornerofthewarehouse,whereMr.Quinioncouldseeme,whenhechosetostanduponthebottomrailofhisstoolinthecounting-house,andlookatmethroughawindowabovethedesk.Hither,onthefirstmorningofmysoauspiciouslybeginninglifeonmyownaccount,theoldestoftheregularboyswassummonedtoshowmemybusiness.HisnamewasMickWalker,andheworearaggedapronandapapercap.Heinformedmethathisfatherwasabargeman,andwalked,inablackvelvethead-dress,intheLordMayor’sShow.HealsoinformedmethatourprincipalassociatewouldbeanotherboywhomheintroducedbythetomeextraordinarynameofMealyPotatoes.

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