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148
The Diary of a Nobody
·
George Grossmith Weedon Grossmith
25
To
think
that
a
man
who
mends
our
scraper
should
know
any
member
of
our
aristocracy!
I
was
just
moving
with
Carrie,
when
Farmerson
seized
me
rather
roughly
by
the
collar,
and
addressing
the
sheriff,
said:
“Let
me
introduce
my
neighbour,
Pooter.”
He
did
not
even
say
“Mister.”
The
sheriff
handed
me
a
glass
of
champagne.
I
felt,
after
all,
it
was
a
great
honour
to
drink
a
glass
of
wine
with
him,
and
I
told
him
so.
We
stood
chatting
for
some
time,
and
at
last
I
said:
“You
must
excuse
me
now
if
I
join
Mrs.
Pooter.”
When
I
approached
her,
she
said:
“Don’t
let
me
take
you
away
from
friends.
I
am
quite
happy
standing
here
alone
in
a
crowd,
knowing
nobody!”
As
it
takes
two
to
make
a
quarrel,
and
as
it
was
neither
the
time
nor
the
place
for
it,
I
gave
my
arm
to
Carrie,
and
said:
“I
hope
my
darling
little
wife
will
dance
with
me,
if
only
for
the
sake
of
saying
we
had
danced
at
the
Mansion
House
as
guests
of
the
Lord
Mayor.”
Finding
the
dancing
after
supper
was
less
formal,
and
knowing
how
much
Carrie
used
to
admire
my
dancing
in
the
days
gone
by,
I
put
my
arm
round
her
waist
and
we
commenced
a
waltz.
A
most
unfortunate
accident
occurred.
I
had
got
on
a
new
pair
of
boots.
Foolishly,
I
had
omitted
to
take
Carrie’s
advice;
namely,
to
scratch
the
soles
of
them
with
the
points
of
the
scissors
or
to
put
a
little
wet
on
them.
I
had
scarcely
started
when,
like
lightning,
my
left
foot
slipped
away
and
I
came
down,
the
side
of
my
head
striking
the
floor
with
such
violence
that
for
a
second
or
two
I
did
not
know
what
had
happened.
I
needly
hardly
say
that
Carrie
fell
with
me
with
equal
violence,
breaking
the
comb
in
her
hair
and
grazing
her
elbow.
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