Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune.
He encounters Mr Vincent Crummles; and who he was, is herein made
manifest

The whole capital which Nicholas found himself entitled to, either
in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, after paying his
rent and settling with the broker from whom he had hired his poor
furniture, did not exceed, by more than a few halfpence, the sum of
twenty shillings. And yet he hailed the morning on which he had
resolved to quit London, with a light heart, and sprang from his bed
with an elasticity of spirit which is happily the lot of young
persons, or the world would never be stocked with old ones.

It was a cold, dry, foggy morning in early spring. A few meagre
shadows flitted to and fro in the misty streets, and occasionally
there loomed through the dull vapour, the heavy outline of some
hackney coach wending homewards, which, drawing slowly nearer,
rolled jangling by, scattering the thin crust of frost from its
whitened roof, and soon was lost again in the cloud. At intervals
were heard the tread of slipshod feet, and the chilly cry of the
poor sweep as he crept, shivering, to his early toil; the heavy
footfall of the official watcher of the night, pacing slowly up and
down and cursing the tardy hours that still intervened between him
and sleep; the rambling of ponderous carts and waggons; the roll of
the lighter vehicles which carried buyers and sellers to the
different markets; the sound of ineffectual knocking at the doors of
heavy sleepers--all these noises fell upon the ear from time to
time, but all seemed muffled by the fog, and to be rendered almost
as indistinct to the ear as was every object to the sight. The
sluggish darkness thickened as the day came on; and those who had
the courage to rise and peep at the gloomy street from their
curtained windows, crept back to bed again, and coiled themselves up
to sleep.

Before even these indications of approaching morning were rife in
busy London, Nicholas had made his way alone to the city, and stood
beneath the windows of his mother's house. It was dull and bare to
see, but it had light and life for him; for there was at least one
heart within its old walls to which insult or dishonour would bring
the same blood rushing, that flowed in his own veins.

He crossed the road, and raised his eyes to the window of the room
where he knew his sister slept. It was closed and dark. 'Poor
girl,' thought Nicholas, 'she little thinks who lingers here!'

He looked again, and felt, for the moment, almost vexed that Kate
was not there to exchange one word at parting. 'Good God!' he
thought, suddenly correcting himself, 'what a boy I am!'

'It