As we walked, I looked closely at Mr. Wemmick. He was a short man with a square, wooden face. He didn't have much expression, and his skin looked like it had been carved out of a hard piece of wood. He wore several rings and a pin on his shirt to remember people who had died. His eyes were small and sharp, and his mouth was wide and thin. It reminded me of a slot for letters in a post office.
“So, you’ve never been to London before?” Mr. Wemmick asked.
“No,” I replied. “Is it a very wicked place?”
“You can be cheated, robbed, or even murdered here,” he said calmly. “But that can happen anywhere if someone can get something from you.”
Wemmick walked with his hat on the back of his head, looking straight forward. He didn't seem to care about anything in the busy streets. He told me that my new tutor, Mr. Matthew Pocket, lived in Hammersmith, about five miles away.
Soon, we arrived at Barnard’s Inn. I had expected it to be a grand hotel, but I was very disappointed. It was a collection of the shabbiest, dirtiest buildings I had ever seen. The trees were dismal, the windows were covered in dust, and everything smelled of rot and old soot. It looked more like a graveyard for buildings than a home for a gentleman.
“The quietness reminds you of the country, doesn’t it?” Wemmick said, though I thought it just looked miserable.
He led me up a dark, narrow staircase that felt like it was falling apart. On the top floor, there was a door with the name "MR. POCKET, JUN." written on it. A note on the door said, “Return shortly.”
“He didn't think you would arrive so soon,” Wemmick explained. “I'll leave you here. Since I manage the money, we will see each other often. Good day!”
I offered my hand, and Wemmick looked at it with surprise. He seemed to have forgotten the habit of shaking hands, but he eventually shook mine and left.
I waited alone for half an hour, looking out of the dusty window. I felt that London was definitely not as wonderful as I had imagined. Finally, I heard footsteps on the stairs. A young man about my age appeared. He was carrying several paper bags and a small basket of strawberries. He was out of breath.
“Mr. Pip?” he asked.
“Mr. Pocket?” I replied.
“I am so sorry!” he said politely. “I thought you would arrive on a later coach. I went to the market to get some fruit for you, as I thought you might like it, coming from the country.”
I thanked him, feeling a bit confused. The door to the apartment was stuck, and we had to push it together. When it finally opened, we both fell inside and started laughing. He showed me around the rooms. They were small and simple, but he was very kind and welcoming. He explained that we would stay here together until Monday, when we would visit his father.
As I handed him the bags of fruit, he suddenly stopped and looked at me. His eyes went wide with surprise. I felt the same shock as I looked at him.
“Lord bless me!” he cried, stepping back. “You are the prowling boy!”
“And you,” I said, remembering the garden at Miss Havisham’s house, “are the pale young gentleman!”