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- Авторы
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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 171/820
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My
bed
at
night
was
under
another
haystack
,
where
I
rested
comfortably
,
after
having
washed
my
blistered
feet
in
a
stream
,
and
dressed
them
as
well
as
I
was
able
,
with
some
cool
leaves
.
When
I
took
the
road
again
next
morning
,
I
found
that
it
lay
through
a
succession
of
hop
-
grounds
and
orchards
.
It
was
sufficiently
late
in
the
year
for
the
orchards
to
be
ruddy
with
ripe
apples
;
and
in
a
few
places
the
hop
-
pickers
were
already
at
work
.
I
thought
it
all
extremely
beautiful
,
and
made
up
my
mind
to
sleep
among
the
hops
that
night
:
imagining
some
cheerful
companionship
in
the
long
perspectives
of
poles
,
with
the
graceful
leaves
twining
round
them
.
The
trampers
were
worse
than
ever
that
day
,
and
inspired
me
with
a
dread
that
is
yet
quite
fresh
in
my
mind
.
Some
of
them
were
most
ferocious
-
looking
ruffians
,
who
stared
at
me
as
I
went
by
;
and
stopped
,
perhaps
,
and
called
after
me
to
come
back
and
speak
to
them
,
and
when
I
took
to
my
heels
,
stoned
me
.
I
recollect
one
young
fellow
—
a
tinker
,
I
suppose
,
from
his
wallet
and
brazier
—
who
had
a
woman
with
him
,
and
who
faced
about
and
stared
at
me
thus
;
and
then
roared
to
me
in
such
a
tremendous
voice
to
come
back
,
that
I
halted
and
looked
round
.
‘
Come
here
,
when
you
’
re
called
,
’
said
the
tinker
,
‘
or
I
’
ll
rip
your
young
body
open
.
’
I
thought
it
best
to
go
back
.
As
I
drew
nearer
to
them
,
trying
to
propitiate
the
tinker
by
my
looks
,
I
observed
that
the
woman
had
a
black
eye
.
‘
Where
are
you
going
?
’
said
the
tinker
,
gripping
the
bosom
of
my
shirt
with
his
blackened
hand
.
‘
I
am
going
to
Dover
,
’
I
said
.
‘
Where
do
you
come
from
?
’
asked
the
tinker
,
giving
his
hand
another
turn
in
my
shirt
,
to
hold
me
more
securely
.
‘
I
come
from
London
,
’
I
said
.
‘
What
lay
are
you
upon
?
’
asked
the
tinker
.
‘
Are
you
a
prig
?
’
