Many were the smiles, and bows, and nods, and finger kisses, and bright
eyes, and sweet glances, that the fair flyers shot at our friend as they
darted past. We were lost in astonishment at the sight. 'Verily,' said we,
'but the old man was right. This _is_ an am_aa_zin' instance of a pop'lar
man.'
Young Puffington was then in the heyday of youth, about one-and-twenty or
so, fair-haired, fresh-complexioned, slim, and standing, with the aid of
high-heeled boots, little under six feet high. He had taken after his
mother, not after old Tom Trodgers, as they called his papa. At length we
crossed over Oxford Street, and taking the shady side of Bond Street, were
quickly among the real swells of the world--men who crawled along as if
life was a perfect burden to them--men with eye-glasses fixed and tasselled
canes in their hands, scarcely less ponderous than those borne by the
footmen. Great Heavens! but they were tight, and smart, and shiny; and
Puffington was just as tight, and smart, and shiny as any of them. He was
as much in his element here as he appeared to be out of it in Oxford
Street.
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