And so I went scrambling on till twenty, and how I lived I don’t know. Indeed, when I look back, I often think money’s of no use at all; folks do quite as well, or better, without it. Money’s a habit--nothing more. At twenty--how it happened I can’t tell--I found myself a tradesman. Yes; I sold baked ’tatoes, and--on nipping winter days--used to feel myself a sort of benefactor to what is called our species. I had read a little at book-stalls and so on; and many a time have I, with a sort of pride, asked myself if many of the Roman emperors ever sold ’tatoes, salt, and a bit of butter for a penny? I should think not. Well, at three-and-twenty down came that bit of money on me! Whether it was really a relation who left it or not, or whether it was all a mistake, I never asked--I took the money. And that bit of money made me swell not a little. Yes; I swelled like a toad--full of poison with it. Then I went to make no end of a fortune. I thought luck had fallen deep in love with me, and I couldn’t go too far. There was a gentleman who always came with an order to the Coburg. A few years ago I should have said he was a Jew; but now I know manners, and so call him a gentleman of the Hebrew persuasion. Well; if he couldn’t talk melted butter! We were both to make our fortunes, but I was to find the money for the couple. We went upon ’Change; and, as he said, both of us were ruined. Ruin, however, could have been nothing strange to him, for he never seemed the worse for it. From that time, Peter, I was flung upon the hard stones of London. I had too much pride to go to the ’tatoes again, and so took to billiards. Ha! Peter, it’s dirty bread; it’s bread with the headache and the heartache in it. That wouldn’t do long; though how I did shuffle, and hedge, and make the most of the innocent, and all to try and keep myself respectable. I tell you, for fifteen years I fought it out like a man. I didn’t care what came of it, what folks said of me--I would be respectable. A superfine coat and a prime dinner I would have; but ha, Peter! it’s all been taken out of me. I’ve given it up, I tell you, and I’m a happy cabman. Bless your soul! you can’t think what a happy life it is. Always seeing something new, and always riding with somebody. For you must know my cab isn’t one of the new concerns that divide the drive and his fare. That wouldn’t suit me nohow. No; I like to ride upon what I call an equality, and talk and learn life as I go; you can’t believe the sort of people that I sometimes drive about, and the things I get out of ’em. But I intend to write it all down, and to save the bother of posting, and all that, to print my letters at once. Then if my dear relations and acquaintance that are scattered in all the corners of the world don’t know anything about me, ’twill be their fault, not mine.