But you will think of this, Sam, when I am dead and gone." So the poor old man (perhaps with a tear in his eye, but certainly with sorrow in his heart) set forth towards Uttoxeter.

The gray-haired, feeble, melancholy Michael Johnson! How sad a thing it was that he should be forced to go, in his sickness, and toil for the support of an ungrateful son who was too proud to do anything for his father, or his mother, or himself! Sam looked after Mr.Johnson with a sullen countenance till he was out of sight.
But when the old man's figure, as he went stooping along the street, was no more to be seen, the boy's heart began to smite him.

He had a vivid imagination, and it tormented him with the image of his father standing in the market-place of Uttoxeter and offering his books to the noisy crowd around him.

Sam seemed to behold him arranging his literary merchandise upon the stall in such a way as was best calculated to attract notice.

Here was Addison's Spectator, a long row of little volumes; here was Pope's translation of the Iliad and Odyssey; here were Dryden's poems, or those of Prior.