“All of whom I met in the street, talking loud in your praise,” returned Steerforth. “Who’s our friend in the tights?”

I gave him the best idea I could, in a few words, of Mr. Micawber. He laughed heartily at my feeble portrait of that gentleman, and said he was a man to know, and he must know him. “But who do you suppose our other friend is?” said I, in my turn.

“Heaven knows,” said Steerforth. “Not a bore, I hope? I thought he looked a little like one.”

“Traddles!” I replied, triumphantly.

“Who’s he?” asked Steerforth, in his careless way.

“Don’t you remember Traddles? Traddles in our room at Salem House?”