rid of him, to all of which Bob Fagin, in his goodness, was deaf, shook
hands with him on the steps of a house near Southwark Bridge on the
Surrey side, making believe that I lived there. As a finishing piece
of reality in case of his looking back, I knocked at the door, I
recollect, and asked, when the woman opened it, if that was Mr. Robert
Fagin's house.

My usual way home was over Blackfriars Bridge, and down that turning in
the Blackfriars Road which has Rowland Hill's chapel on one side, and
the likeness of a golden dog licking a golden pot over a shop door on
the other. There are a good many little low-browed old shops in that
street, of a wretched kind; and some are unchanged now. I looked into
one a few weeks ago, where I used to buy bootlaces on Saturday nights,
and saw the corner where I once sat down on a stool to have a pair of
ready-made half-boots fitted on. I have been seduced more than once,
in that street on a Saturday night, by a show-van at a corner; and have
gone in, with a very motley assemblage, to see the Fat Pig, the Wild
Indian, and the Little Lady. There were two or three hat manufactories
there then (I think they are there still); and among the things which,
encountered anywhere, or under any circumstances, will instantly recall
that time, is the smell of hat-making.

I was such a little fellow, with my poor white hat, little jacket, and
corduroy trousers, that frequently, when I went into the bar of a
strange public-house for a glass of ale or porter to wash down the
saveloy and the loaf I had eaten in the street, they didn't like to
give it me. I remember, one evening (I had been somewhere for my
father, and was going back to the Borough over Westminster Bridge),
that I went into a public-house in Parliament Street, which is still
there, though altered, at the corner of the short street leading into