membering the
helplessness of his mother and sister, he would give his uncle no
plea for deserting them in their need. Good resolutions seldom fail of
producing some good effect in the mind from which they spring. He grew
less desponding, and--so sanguine and buoyant is youth--even hoped that
affairs at Dotheboys Hall might yet prove better than they promised.

He was preparing for bed, with something like renewed cheerfulness,
when a sealed letter fell from his coat pocket. In the hurry of leaving
London, it had escaped his attention, and had not occurred to him since,
but it at once brought back to him the recollection of the mysterious
behaviour of Newman Noggs.

'Dear me!' said Nicholas; 'what an extraordinary hand!'

It was directed to himself, was written upon very dirty paper, and in
such cramped and crippled writing as to be almost illegible. After great
difficulty and much puzzling, he contrived to read as follows:--

My dear young Man.

I know the world. Your father did not, or he would not have done me a
kindness when there was no hope of return. You do not, or you would not
be bound on such a journey.

If ever you want a shelter in London (don't be angry at this, I once
thought I never should), they know where I live, at the sign of the
Crown, in Silver Street, Golden Square. It is at the corner of Silver
Street and James Street, with a bar door both ways. You can come at
night. Once, nobody was ashamed--never mind that. It's all over.

Excuse errors. I should forget how to wear a whole coat now. I have
forgotten all my old ways. My spelling may have gone with them.

NEWMAN NOGGS.

P.S. If you should go near Barnard Castle, there is good ale at the
King's Head. Say you know me, and I am sure they will not charge you
for it. You may say Mr Noggs there, for I was a gentleman then. I was
indeed.

It may be a very undignified circumstances to record, but after he had
folded this letter and placed it in his pocket-book, Nicholas Nickleby's
eyes were dimmed with a moisture that might have been taken for tears.

CHAPTER 8

Of the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hall

A ride of two hundred and odd miles in severe weather, is one of the
best softeners of a hard bed that ingenuity can devise. Perhaps it is
even a sweetener of dreams, for those which hovered over the rough couch
of Nicholas, and whispered their airy nothings in his ear, were of an
agreeable and happy kind. He was making his fortun