heard, and he had been shipped to them as though he were a piece of
merchandise. And what was to become of him now, after he reached his
destination? What would they expect him to do? Or be? How would he be
treated?

In his extensive reading--he had been an omnivorous reader--there were
numerous examples of youths left, like him, to the care of distant
relatives, or step-parents, or utter strangers. Their experiences,
generally speaking, had not been cheerful ones. Most of them had run
away. He might run away; but somehow the idea of running away, with no
money, to face hardship and poverty and all the rest, did not make an
alluring appeal. He had been used to comfort and luxury ever since he
could remember, and his imagination, an unusually active one, visualized
much more keenly than the average the tribulations and struggles of a
runaway. David Copperfield, he remembered, had run away, but he did it
when a kid, not a man like himself. Nicholas Nickleby--no, Nicholas had
not run away exactly, but his father had died and he had been left to an
uncle. It would be dreadful if his grandfather should turn out to be a
man like Ralph Nickleby. Yet Nicholas had gotten on well in spite of his
wicked relative. Yes, and how gloriously he had defied the old
rascal, too! He wondered if he would ever be called upon to defy his
grandfather. He saw himself doing it--quietly, a perfect gentleman
always, but with the noble determination of one performing a
disagreeable duty. His chin lifted and his shoulders squared against the
back of the buggy.

Mr. Keeler, who had apparently forgotten his passenger altogether, broke
into song,