“I’ll buy a book,” said I, “with a good scheme of this art in it; I’ll work at it at the Commons, where I haven’t half enough to do; I’ll take down the speeches in our court for practice—Traddles, my dear fellow, I’ll master it!”
“Dear me,” said Traddles, opening his eyes, “I had no idea you were such a determined character, Copperfield!”
I don’t know how he should have had, for it was new enough to me. I passed that off, and brought Mr. Dick on the carpet.
“You see,” said Mr. Dick, wistfully, “if I could exert myself, Mr. Traddles—if I could beat a drum—or blow anything!”
Poor fellow! I have little doubt he would have preferred such an employment in his heart to all others. Traddles, who would not have smiled for the world, replied composedly:
“But you are a very good penman, sir. You told me so, Copperfield?”
“Excellent!” said I. And indeed he was. He wrote with extraordinary neatness.
“Don’t you think,” said Traddles, “you could copy writings, sir, if I got them for you?”
Mr. Dick looked doubtfully at me. “Eh, Trotwood?”
I shook my head. Mr. Dick shook his, and sighed. “Tell him about the Memorial ,” said Mr. Dick.
I explained to Traddles that there was a difficulty in keeping King Charles the First out of Mr. Dick’s manuscripts; Mr. Dick in the meanwhile looking very deferentially and seriously at Traddles, and sucking his thumb.