or, without a smile on
his somewhat cherubic countenance.

'Well, she lives No. 5, round the corner.'

On receiving this unexpected reply, they looked at one another in comic
dismay; but would certainly have gone to No. 5, and taken a look at the
modern Sairy, if the woman hadn't called out as they moved on--

'I b'lieve that nuss's name is Britiain, not Gamp; but you can ask.'

Murmuring a hasty 'thank you,' they fled precipitately round the corner,
and there enjoyed a glorious laugh under an umbrella, to the great
amazement of all beholders.

Being on a Dickens pilgrimage, they went to Furnival's Inn, where he
wrote 'Pickwick' in a three-story room, and read it to the old porter.
The same old porter told them all about it, and quite revelled in the
remembrance. It did one's heart good to see the stiff, dried-up old
fellow thaw and glow with the recollection of the handsome young man who
was kind to him long ago, before the world had found him out.

'Did you think the book would be famous when he read it to you in 1834,
as you say?' asked the Professor, beaming at him in a way that would
have melted the heart of the stiff-tailed lion of the Northumberlands,
if he'd possessed such an organ.

'O dear, yes, sir; I felt sure it would be summat good, it made me laugh
so. _He_ didn't think much of it; but I know a good thing when I see
it;' and the old man gave an important nod, as if all the credit of the
blessed 'Pickwick' belonged to him. 'He married Miss Hogarth while
livin' here; and you can see the room, if you like,' he added, with a
burst of hospitality, as the almighty sixpence touched his palm.

Up they went, over the worn stairs; and, finding the door locked,
solemnly touched the brass knob, read the name 'Ed Peck' on the plate,
and wiped their feet on a very dirty mat. It was ridiculous, of course;
but hero-worship is not the worst of modern follies, and when one's hero
has won from the world some of its heartiest smiles and tears, one may
be forgiven for a little sentiment in a dark entry.

Next they went to the Saracen's Head, where Mr. Squeers stopped when in
London. The odd old place looked as if it hadn't changed a particle.
There was the wooden gallery outside, where the chamber-maids stood to
see the coach off; the archway under which poor Nicholas drove that cold
morning; the office, or bar, where the miserable little boys shivered
while they took alternate sips out of one mug, and bolted hunches