It was Mid-summer weather, and the evening was very pleasant.

When we passed through a village, I pictured to myself what the insides of the houses were like, and what the inhabitants were about; and when boys came running after us, and got up behind and swung there for a little way, I wondered whether their fathers were alive, and whether they Were happy at home.

I had plenty to think of, therefore, besides my mind running continually on the kind of place I was going to--which was an awful speculation.

Sometimes, I remember, I resigned myself to thoughts of home and Peggotty; and to endeavouring, in a confused blind way, to recall how I had felt, and what sort of boy I used to be, before I bit Mr.Murdstone: which I couldn't satisfy myself about by any means, I seemed to have bitten him in such a remote antiquity.
The night was not so pleasant as the evening, for it got chilly; and being put between two gentlemen (the rough-faced one and another) to prevent my tumbling off the coach, I was nearly smothered by their falling asleep, and completely blocking me up.

They squeezed me so hard sometimes, that I could not help crying out, 'Oh! If you please!'-- which they didn't like at all, because it woke them.