A Loss
I got down to Yarmouth in the evening, and went to the inn. I knew that Peggotty’s spare room—my room—was likely to have occupation enough in a little while, if that great Visitor, before whose presence all the living must give place, were not already in the house; so I betook myself to the inn, and dined there, and engaged my bed.
It was ten o’clock when I went out. Many of the shops were shut, and the town was dull. When I came to Omer and Joram’s, I found the shutters up, but the shop door standing open. As I could obtain a perspective view of Mr. Omer inside, smoking his pipe by the parlour door, I entered, and asked him how he was.
“Why, bless my life and soul!” said Mr. Omer, “how do you find yourself? Take a seat.—Smoke not disagreeable, I hope?”
“By no means,” said I. “I like it—in somebody else’s pipe.”
“What, not in your own, eh?” Mr. Omer returned, laughing. “All the better, sir. Bad habit for a young man. Take a seat. I smoke, myself, for the asthma.”
Mr. Omer had made room for me, and placed a chair. He now sat down again very much out of breath, gasping at his pipe as if it contained a supply of that necessary, without which he must perish.
“I am sorry to have heard bad news of Mr. Barkis,” said I.
Mr. Omer looked at me, with a steady countenance, and shook his head.