 CHAPTER 40 The remainder of the period which Mr. Pickwick had assigned is the duration of the stay-at-bath passed over without the occurrence of anything material. Trinity term commenced. On the expiration of its first week Mr. Pickwick and his friends returned to London, and the former gentleman attended, of course, by Sam, straight way repaired to his old quarters at the Georgian vulture. On the third morning after their arrival, just as all the clocks in the city were striking nine individually and somewhere about nine hundred and ninety-nine collectively, Sam was taking the air in George's yard when a queer sort of fresh-painted vehicle drove up, out of which they jumped with great agility, throwing the reins to a stout man who sat beside him, a queer sort of gentleman who seemed made for the vehicle and the vehicle for him. The vehicle was not exactly a gig, neither was it a stand-hope. It was not what is currently denominated a dog cart. Neither was it a taxed cart nor a chaise cart nor a guillotined cabriolet, and yet it had something of the character of each and every of these machines. It was painted a bright yellow with the shafts and wheels picked out in black, and the driver sat in the orthodox sporting style on cushions piled about two feet above the rail. The horse was a bay, a well-looking animal enough, but with something of a flash and dog-fighting air about him, nevertheless, which accorded both with the vehicle and his master. The master himself was a man of about forty, with black hair and carefully combed whiskers. He was dressed in a particularly gorgeous manner, with plenty of articles of jewelry about him, all about three sizes larger than those which are usually worn by gentlemen, and a rough greatcoat to crown the whole. Into one pocket of this greatcoat he thrust his left hand the moment he dismounted, while from the other he drew forth with his right a very bright and glaring silk handkerchief, with which he whisked the speck or two of dust from his boots, and then crumpling it in his hand swaggered up the court. It had not escaped Sam's attention that when this person dismounted a shabby-looking man in a brown greatcoat shorn of diverse buttons, who had been previously slinking about on the opposite side of the way, crossed over and remained stationary close by. Having something more than a suspicion of the object of the gentleman's visit, Sam preceded him to the George and Vulture, and, turning sharp round, planted himself in the center of the doorway. "'Now, my fine fellow,' said the man in the rough coat, in an imperious tone, attempting at the same time to push his way past. "'Now, sir, what's the matter?' replied Sam, returning the push with compound interest. "'Come, none of this, my man, this won't do with me,' said the owner of the rough coat, raising his voice and turning white. "'Here, smouch!' "'Well, what's the miss here?' growled the man in the brown coat, who had been gradually sneaking up the court during this short dialogue. "'Only some insolence of this young man,' said the principal, giving Sam another push. "'Come, none of this, gammon!' growled Smouch, giving him another and a harder one. This last push had the effect which it was intended by the experienced Mr. Smouch to produce. For while Sam, anxious to return the compliment, was grinding that gentleman's body against the doorpost, the principal crept past and made his way to the bar, wither Sam after banding a few apathetical remarks with Mr. Smouch, followed at once. "'Good morning, my dear,' said the principal, addressing the young lady at the bar with botany-bay-ese and New South Wales gentility. "'Which is Mr. Pickwick's room, my dear?' "'Show him up,' said the barmaid to a waiter, without dating another look at the exquisite, and replied to his inquiry. The waiter led the way upstairs, as he was desired, and the man in the rough coat followed with Sam behind him, who, in his progress up the staircase, indulged in sundry gestures indicative of supreme contempt and defiance to the unspeakable gratification of the servants and other lookers on. Mr. Smouch, who was troubled with a horse cough, remained below and expected it in the passage. Mr. Pickwick was fast asleep in bed when his early visitor, followed by Sam, entered the room, the noise they made and so doing, awoke him. "'Shaving water, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, from within the curtains. "'Shave you directly, Mr. Pickwick,' said the visitor, drawing one of them back from the bed's head. "'I've got an execution against you at the suit of Bardell. Here's the warrant. Common, please. Here's my card. I suppose you'll come over to my house?' Seeing Mr. Pickwick a friendly tap on the shoulder, the sheriff's officer, for such he was, threw his card on the counterpane and pulled a gold toothpick from his waistcoat pocket. "'Namby's the name,' said the sheriff's deputy, as Mr. Pickwick took his spectacles from under the pillow and put them on to read the card. "'Namby,' Bell Alley Coleman Street. At this point, Sam Weller, who had had his eyes fixed tethered to on Mr. Namby's shining beaver, interfered. "'Are you a Quaker?' said Sam. "'I'll let you know I am before I've done with you,' replied the indignant officer. "'I'll teach you manners, my fine fellow, one of these fine mornings.' "'Thank you,' said Sam. "'I'll do the same to you. Take your hat off.' "'With this, Mr. Weller, in the most dexterous manner, knocked Mr. Namby's hat to the other side of the room with such violence that he had very nearly caused him to swallow the gold toothpick into the bargain.' "'Observe this,' Mr. Pickwick,' said the disconcerted officer, gasping for breath. "'I've been assaulted in the execution of my duty by your servant in your chamber. I'm in bodily fear. I call you to witness this.' "'Don't witness nothing, sir,' interposed Sam. "'Shut your eyes up tight, sir. I'd pitch him out a window, only he couldn't fall far enough because of the leads outside.' "'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick in an angry voice as his attendant made various demonstrations of hostilities. If you say another word or offer the slightest interference with this person, I discharge you that instant.' "'But, sir,' said Sam, "'hold your tongue,' interposed Mr. Pickwick. "'Take that hat up again.' But this Sam flatly and positively refused to do. And after he had been severely reprimanded by his master, the officer, being in a hurry, condescended to pick it up himself, venting a great variety of threats against Sam meanwhile, which that gentleman received with perfect composure, merely observing that if Mr. Namby would have the goodness to put his hat on again, he would knock it into the latter end of next week. Mr. Namby, perhaps thinking that such a process might be productive of inconvenience to himself, declined to offer the temptation, and soon after called up Smouch. Having informed him that the capture was made and that he was to wait for the prisoner until he should have finished dressing, Namby then swaggered out and drove away. Smouch, requesting Mr. Pickwick in a surly manner to be as alive as he could for it was a busy time, drew up a chair by the door and sat there until he had finished dressing. Sam was then despatched for a hackney-coach, and in at the triumvirate proceeded to Coleman Street. It was fortunate the distance was short, for Mr. Smouch, besides possessing no very enchanting conversational powers, was rendered a decidedly unpleasant companion in a limited space by the physical weakness to which we have elsewhere inverted. The coach, having turned into a very narrow and dark street, stopped before a house with iron bars to all the windows. The doorposts of which were graced by the name and title of Namby, Officer to the Sheriffs of London. The inner gate having been opened by a gentleman who might have passed for a neglected twin brother of Mr. Smouch, and who was endowed with a large key for the purpose Mr. Pickwick was shown into the coffee-room. This coffee-room was a front parlor, the principal features of which were fresh sand and stale tobacco smoke. Mr. Pickwick bowed to the three persons who were seated in it when he entered, and having despatched Sam for perker, withdrew into an obscure corner and looked fenced with some curiosity upon his new companions. One of these was a mere boy of nineteen or twenty, who, though it was yet barely ten o'clock, was drinking gin and water and smoking a cigar. Amusements to which, judging from his inflamed countenance, he had devoted himself pretty constantly for the last year or two of his life. Opposite him, engaged in stirring the fire with the toe of his right boot, was a coarse, vulgar young man of about thirty, with a sallow face and harsh voice, evidently possessed of that knowledge of the world and captivating freedom of manner which is to be acquired in public house parlors and at low billiard tables. The third tenant of the apartment was a middle-aged man in a very old suit of black, who looked pale and haggard and paced up and down the room incessantly, stopping now and then to look with great anxiety out of the window as if he expected somebody and then resuming his walk. You'd better have the loan of my razor this morning, Mr. Aresley, said the man who was stirring the fire, tipping the wink to his friend the boy. Thank you, no, I shan't want it. I expect I shall be out in the course of an hour or so, replied the other in a hurried manner, then walking again up to the window and once more returning disappointed he sighed deeply and left the room, a pound which the other two burst into a loud laugh. Well, I never saw such a game as that, said the gentleman who had offered the razor, whose name appeared to be Price. Never. Mr. Price confirmed the assertion with an oath and then laughed again when, of course, the boy who thought his companion, one of the most dashing fellows alive, laughed also. You'd hardly think, would you now, said Price, turning towards Mr. Pickwick, that that chap's been here a week yesterday and never once shaved himself yet because he feels so certain he's going out in half an hour's time, thinks he may as well put it off till he gets home. Poor man, said Mr. Pickwick, are his chances of getting out of his difficulties really so great? Chances be damned, replied Price, he has in half the ghost of one. I wouldn't give that for his chance of walking about the streets this time ten years. With this Mr. Price snapped his fingers contemptuously and rang the bell. Give me a sheet of paper, crookie, said Mr. Price, to the attendant, who, in dress and general appearance, looked something between a bankrupt glazier and a drover in a state of insolvency. And a glass of brandy and water, crookie, do you hear? I'm going to write to my father, and I must have a stimulant, or I shan't be able to pitch it strong enough into the old boy. At this facetious speech the young boy, it is almost needless to say, was fairly convulsed. That's right, said Mr. Price, never say die, all fun, ain't it? Prime, said the young gentleman. You've got some spirit about you, you have, said Price. You've seen something of life. I rather think I have, replied the boy. He had looked at it through the dirty panes of glass in a bar door. Mr. Pickwick, feeling not a little disgusted with this dialogue, as well as with the air and manner of the two beings by whom it had been carried on, was about to inquire whether he could not be accommodated with a private sitting-room when two or three strangers of gentile appearance entered, at sight of whom the boy threw his cigar into the fire and whispering to Mr. Price that they had come to make it all right for him, joined them at a table in the farther end of the room. It would appear, however, that matters were not going to be made all right quite so speedily as the young gentleman anticipated, for a very long conversation ensued of which Mr. Pickwick could not avoid hearing certain angry fragments regarding disillute conduct and repeated forgiveness. At last there were very distinct allusions made by the oldest gentleman of the party to one white cross street, at which the young gentleman, notwithstanding his primeness and his spirit and his knowledge of life into the bargain, reclined his head upon the table and howled dismally. Very much satisfied with the sudden bringing down of the youth's valour and this effectual lowering of his tone, Mr. Pickwick rang the bell and was shown at his own request into a private room furnished with a carpet, table, chairs, sideboard and sofa, and ornamented with a looking-glass and various old prints. Here he had the advantage of hearing Mrs. Namby's performance on a square piano overhead while the breakfast was getting ready. When it came, Mr. Perker came, too. Aha, my dear sir, said the little man, nailed at last, eh? Come, come, I'm not sorry for it, either, because now you'll see the absurdity of this conduct. I've noted down the amount of the taxed costs and damages for which the car saw was issued, and we had better settle at once and lose no time. Namby has come home by this time, I dare say. What say you, my dear sir? Shall I draw a check, or will you? The little man rubbed his hands with affected cheerfulness as he said this, but glancing at Mr. Pickwick's countenance could not forbear at the same time casting a desponding look toward Sam Weller. Perker, said Mr. Pickwick, let me hear no more of this, I beg. I see no advantage in staying here, so I shall go to prison tonight. You can't go to White Cross Street, my dear sir, said Perker. Impossible! There are sixty beds and a ward in the bolts on sixteen hours out of the four and twenty. I would rather go to some other place of confinement if I can, said Mr. Pickwick. If not, I must make the best I can of that. You can go to the fleet, my dear sir, if you're determined to go somewhere, said Perker. That'll do, said Mr. Pickwick. I'll go there directly. I have finished my breakfast. Stop, stop, my dear sir. Not the least occasion for being in such a violent hurry to get into a place that most other men are as eager to get out of, said the good-natured little attorney. We must have a habeas corpus. There'll be no judge at chamber still four o'clock this afternoon. You must wait till then. Very good, said Mr. Pickwick, with unmoved patience. Then we will have a chop here at two, see about it, Sam, and tell them to be punctual. Mr. Pickwick, remaining firm, despite all the remonstrances and arguments of Perker, the chops appeared and disappeared in due course. He was then put into another hackney coach and carried off to Chance Relaine, after waiting half an hour or so for Mr. Namby, who had a select dinner party and could on no account be disturbed before. There were two judges in attendance at Sargent's Inn. One King's Bench and one Common Please, and a great deal of business appeared to be transacting before them if the number of lawyers clerks who were hurrying in and out with bundles of papers afforded any test. When they reached the Low Archway, which forms the entrance to the Inn, Perker was detained a few moments parlaying with the coachman about the fare and the change, and Mr. Pickwick, stepping to one side to be out of the way of the stream of people that were pouring in and out, looked about him with some curiosity. The people that attracted his attention most were three or four men of shabby, genteel appearance who touched their hats to many of the attorneys who passed and seemed to have some business there the nature of which Mr. Pickwick could not divine. They were curious-looking fellows. One was a slim and rather lame man in rusty black and a white neckerchief, another was a stout burly person dressed in the same apparel with a great reddish-black cloth round his neck, a third was a little wheezing drunken-looking body with a pimply face. They were loitering about with their hands behind them, and now and then with an anxious countenance whispered something in the ear of some of the gentlemen with papers as they hurried by. Mr. Pickwick remembered to have very often observed them lounging under the archway when he had been walking past, and his curiosity was quite excited to know to what branch of the profession these dingy-looking loungers could possibly belong. He was about to propound the question to Namby, who kept close beside him, sucking a large gold ring on his little finger, when Perker bustled up and observing that there was no time to lose led the way into the inn. As Mr. Pickwick followed, the lame man stepped up to him and civilly touching his hat held out a written card which Mr. Pickwick, not wishing to hurt the man's feelings by refusing, courteously accepted and deposited in his waistcoat pocket. Now, said Perker, turning round, before he entered one of the offices to see that his companions were close behind him, in here, my dear sir, hello, what do you want? This last question was addressed to the lame man, who unobserved by Mr. Pickwick made one of the party, and replied to it the lame man touched his hat again with all imaginable politeness and motion towards Mr. Pickwick. No, no, said Perker with a smile, we don't want you, my dear friend, we don't want you. I beg your pardon, sir, said the lame man. The gentleman took my card. I hope you will employ me, sir. The gentleman nodded to me. I'll be judged by the gentleman himself. You nodded to me, sir? Poo-poo, nonsense, you didn't nod to anybody, Pickwick. A mistake, a mistake, said Perker. The gentleman handed me his card, replied Mr. Pickwick, producing it from his waistcoat pocket. I accepted it, as the gentleman seemed to wish it. In fact, I had some curiosity to look at it when I should be at leisure. The little attorney burst into a loud laugh and, returning the card to the lame man, informing him it was all a mistake, whispered to Mr. Pickwick as the man turned away in dudgeon that he was only a bale. A what? exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. A bale, replied Perker. A bale. Yes, my dear sir, half a dozen of them here. Bale you to any amount and only charge half a crown. Curious trade, isn't it, said Perker regaling himself with a pinch of snuff. What? Am I to understand that these men earn livelihood by waiting about here to perjure themselves before the judges of the land at the rate of half a crown of crime? exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, quite aghast at the disclosure. Why, I don't exactly know about perjury, my dear sir, replied the little gentleman. Harsh word, my dear sir, very harsh word indeed. It's legal fiction, my dear sir, nothing more. Saying which, the attorney shrugged his shoulders, smiled, took a second pinch of snuff, and led the way into the office of the judge's clerk. This was a room of specially dirty appearance with a very low ceiling and old paneled walls, and so badly lighted that although it was broad day outside, great tallow candles were burning on the desks. At one end was a door leading to the judge's private apartment, round which were congregated a crowd of attorneys and managing clerks who were called in in the order in which their respective appointments stood upon the file. Every time this door was open to let a party out, the next party made a violent rush to get in, and as in addition to the numerous dialogues which passed between the gentlemen who were waiting to see the judge, a variety of personal squabbles ensued between the greater part of those who had seen him, there was as much noise as could well be raised in an apartment of such confined dimensions. Nor were the conversations of these gentlemen the only sounds that broke upon the ear. Standing on a box behind a wooden bar at another end of the room was a clerk in spectacles who was taking the affidavits, large batches of which were from time to time carried into the private room by another clerk for the judge's signature. There were a large number of attorneys' clerks to be sworn, and it being a moral impossibility to swear them all at once, the struggles of these gentlemen to reach the clerk in spectacles were like those of a crowd to get in at the pit door of a theater when gracious majesty honors it with its presence. Another functionary from time to time exercised his lungs in calling over the names of those who had been sworn, for the purpose of restoring to them their affidavits after they had been signed by the judge, which gave rise to a few more scuffles, and all these things going on at the same time occasioned as much bustle as the most active and excitable person could desire to behold. There were yet another class of persons, those who were waiting to attend summons as their employers had taken out, which it was optional to the attorney on the opposite side to attend or not, and whose business it was from time to time to cry out the opposite attorney's name to make certain that he was not in attendance without their knowledge. For example, leaning against the wall close beside the seat Mr. Pickwick had taken, was an office lad of fourteen with the tenor voice, near him a common law clerk with a base one. A clerk hurried in with a bundle of papers and stared about him. Sniggle and blink, cried the tenor. Porgan and snob, growled the base. Stumpy and deacon, said the newcomer. Nobody answered. The next man who came in was bailed by the whole three, and he in his turn shouted for another firm, and then somebody else roared in a loud voice for another, and so forth. All this time the man in the spectacles was hard at work, swearing the clerks, the oath being invariably administered without any effort at punctuation, and usually in the following terms. Take the book in your right hand. This is your name and handwriting. You swear that the contents of this, your affidavit, are true, so help you God, a shilling you must get changed, I haven't got it. Well, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, I suppose they are getting the habeas corpus ready? Yes, said Sam, and I wish they'd bring out to have his carcass. It's weary unpleasant keeping us veyton here. I'd have got half a dozen have his carcasses ready, packed up and all by this time. What sort of cumbersome and unmanageable machine Sam Weller imagined a habeas corpus to be does not appear. For Perker at that moment walked up and took Mr. Pickwick away. The usual forms having been gone through, the body of Samuel Pickwick was soon afterwards confided to the custody of the tip staff, to be by him taken to the warden of the fleet prison, and there detained until the amount of the damages and costs in the action of Bardell against Pickwick was fully paid and satisfied. And that, said Mr. Pickwick, laughing, will be a very long time. Sam, call another Hackney coach. Perker, my dear friend, goodbye. I shall go with you and see you safe there, said Perker. Indeed, replied Mr. Pickwick, I would rather go without any other attendant than Sam. As soon as I get settled I will write and let you know, and I shall expect you immediately. Until then, goodbye. As Mr. Pickwick said this, he got into the coach which had by this time arrived, followed by the tip staff. Sam, having stationed himself on the box, had rolled away. Most extraordinary man that, said Perker as he stopped to pull on his gloves. What a bankrupt he'd make, sir, observed Mr. Loudon, who was standing near, how he would bother the commissioners. He'd set him at defiance if they talked of committing him, sir. The attorney did not appear very much delighted with his clerk's professional estimate of Mr. Pickwick's character, for he walked away without daining, and he replied. The Hackney coach jolted along Fleet Street, as Hackney coaches usually do. The horses went better, the driver said, when they had anything before them. They must have gone at a most extraordinary pace when there was nothing. And so the vehicle kept behind a cart. When the cart stopped, it stopped. And when the cart went on again, it did the same. Mr. Pickwick sat opposite the tip staff, and the tip staff sat with his hat between his knees whistling a tune and looking out at the coach window. Time performs wonders. By the powerful old gentleman's aid, even a Hackney coach gets over half a mile of ground. They stopped at length, and Mr. Pickwick alighted at the gate of the fleet. The tip staff, just looking over his shoulder to see that his charge was following close at his heels, preceded Mr. Pickwick into the prison. Turning to the left after they had entered, they passed through an open door into a lobby, from which a heavy gate opposite to that by which they had entered, and which was guarded by a stout turnkey with the key in his hand, let it once into the interior of the prison. Here they stopped while the tip staff delivered his papers, and here Mr. Pickwick was apprised that he would remain until he had undergone the ceremony known to the initiated as Sitting for Your Portrait. Sitting for my portrait, said Mr. Pickwick, having your lightness taken, sir, replied the stout turnkey, we're capital hands that lightness is here, take them in no time and always exact. Walk in, sir, and make yourself at home. Mr. Pickwick complied with the invitation and sat himself down, when Mr. Weller, who stationed himself at the back of the chair, whispered that the sitting was merely another term for undergoing an inspection by the different turnkeys in order that they might know prisoners from visitors. Well, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, then I wish the artist would come, this is rather a public place. They won't belong, sir, I just say, replied Sam. There's a Dutch clock, sir. So I see, observed Mr. Pickwick. And a bird cage, sir, says Sam, veals within veals, a prison in a prison, ain't it, sir? As Mr. Weller made this philosophical remark, Mr. Pickwick was aware that his sitting had commenced. The stout turnkey, having been relieved from the lock, sat down and looked at him carelessly from time to time, while a long, thin man who had relieved him thrust his hands beneath his coattails, and, planting himself opposite, took a good long view of him. A third, rather surly-looking gentleman, who had apparently been disturbed at his teeth, for he was disposing of the last remnant of a crust and butter when he came in, stationed himself close to Mr. Pickwick, and resting his hands on his hips, inspected him narrowly, while two others, mixed with the group, and studied his features with most intent and thoughtful faces. Mr. Pickwick winced a good deal under the operation, and appeared to sit very uneasily in his chair. But he made no remark to anybody while it was being performed, not even to Sam, who reclined upon the back of the chair, reflecting, partly on the situation of his master, and partly on the great satisfaction that would have afforded him to make a fierce assault upon all the turnkeys there assembled, one after the other, if it were lawful and peaceable so to do. At length the lightness was completed, and Mr. Pickwick was informed that he might now proceed into the prison. Where am I to sleep tonight? inquired Mr. Pickwick. Why, I don't rightly know about tonight, replied the stout turnkey. You'll be chummed on somebody tomorrow, and then you'll be all snug and comfortable. The first night's generally rather unsettled, but you'll be set all squares tomorrow. After some discussion it was discovered that one of the turnkeys had a bed to let, which Mr. Pickwick could have for that night. He gladly agreed to hire it. If you'll come with me, I'll show it you at once, said the man. It ain't a largely, but it's an out-and-outter to sleep in. This way, sir. They passed through the inner gate, and descended a short flight of steps. The key was turned after them, and Mr. Pickwick found himself for the first time in his life within the walls of a debtor's prison. End of Chapter 40. Chapter 41 of the Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens. This liberal box recording is in the public domain. Recording by Deborah Lynn. The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens. Chapter 41. What befell Mr. Pickwick when he got into the fleet? What prisoners he saw there, and how he passed the night? Mr. Tom Roker, the gentleman who had accompanied Mr. Pickwick into the prison, turned sharp round to the right when he got to the bottom of the little flight of steps, and led the way through an iron gate which stood open, and up another short flight of steps, into a long, narrow gallery, dirty and low, paved with stone and very dimly lighted by a window at each remote end. This, said the gentleman, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and looking carelessly over his shoulder to Mr. Pickwick. This here is the hall flight. Oh, replied Mr. Pickwick, looking down a dark and filthy staircase which appeared to lead to a range of damp and gloomy stone vaults beneath the ground. And those, I suppose, are the little cellars where the prisoners keep their small quantities of coals, unpleasant places to have to go down to, but very convenient, I dare say. I shouldn't wonder if there was convenient, replied the gentleman, seeing that a few people live there pretty snug. That's the fair, that is. My friend, said Mr. Pickwick, you don't really mean to say that human beings live down in those wretched dungeons, don't I? replied Mr. Roker, with indignant astonishment, why shouldn't I? Live? Live down there, exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. Live down there, yes, and die down there too, very often, replied Mr. Roker. And what of that? Who's got to say anything again? Live down there? Yes, and a very good place it is to live in, ain't it? As Roker turned somewhat fiercely upon Mr. Pickwick in saying this, and moreover muttered in an excited fashion certain unpleasant invocations concerning his own eyes, limbs, and circulating fluids, the latter gentleman deemed it advisable to pursue the discourse no further. Mr. Roker then proceeded to mount another staircase, as dirty as that which led to the place which has just been the subject of discussion, in which ascent he was closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and Sam. There, said Mr. Roker, pausing for breath when they reached another gallery of the same dimensions as the one below. This is the coffee-room flight. The one above's the third, and the one above that's the top, and the room where you're going to sleep tonight is the warden's room, and it's this way, come on. Having said all this in a breath, Mr. Roker mounted another flight of stairs with Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller following at his heels. These staircases received light from sundry windows placed at some little distance above the floor, and looking into a graveled area bounded by a high brick wall with iron chevaux de frieze at the top. This area, it appeared, from Mr. Roker's statement, was the racket-ground, and it further appeared, on the testimony of the same gentleman, that there was a smaller area in that portion of the prison which was nearest Farringdon Street, denominated and called the painted ground, from the fact of its walls having once displayed the semblance of various men of war in full sale, and other artistical effects achieved in bygone times by some imprisoned draftsmen in his leisure hours. Having communicated this piece of information, apparently more for the purpose of discharging his bosom of an important fact than with any specific view of enlightening Mr. Pickwick, the guide, having at length reached another gallery, led the way into a small passage at the extreme end, opened a door, and disclosed an apartment of an appearance by no means inviting, containing eight or nine iron bedsteads. There, said Mr. Roker, holding the door open, and looking triumphantly round at Mr. Pickwick, there's a room. Mr. Pickwick's face, however, betokened such a very trifling portion of satisfaction at the appearance of his lodging that Mr. Roker looked, for a reciprocity of feeling, into the countenance of Samuel Weller, who until now had observed a dignified silence. There's a room, young man, observed Mr. Roker. I see it, replied Sam, with a placid nod of the head. You wouldn't think to find such a room as this in the Farringdon Hotel, would you? said Mr. Roker, with a complacent smile. To this Mr. Weller replied with an easy and unstudied closing of one eye, which might be considered to mean either that he would have thought it, or that he would not have thought it, or that he had never thought anything at all about it, as the observer's imagination suggested. Having executed this feat and reopened his eye, Mr. Weller proceeded to inquire which was the individual bedstead that Mr. Roker had so flatteringly described as an out and outer to sleep in. That's it, replied Mr. Roker, pointing to a very rusty one in a corner. It would make anyone go to sleep that bedstead would, whether they wanted to or not. I should think, said Sam, eyeing the piece of furniture in question with a look of excessive disgust. I should think poppies was nothing to it. Nothing at all, said Mr. Roker. And I suppose, said Sam, with a side long glance at his master, as if to see whether there were any symptoms of his determination being shaken by what passed. I suppose the other gentleman as sleeps here are, gentlemen. Nothing but it, said Mr. Roker. One of them takes his twelve pints of ale a day and never leaves off smoking even at his meals. He must be a first-brainer, said Sam. A-one, replied Mr. Roker. Nothing daunted, even by this intelligence, Mr. Pickwick smilingly announced his determination to test the powers of the narcotic bedstead for that night. And Mr. Roker, after informing him that he could retire to rest at whatever hour he thought proper, without any further notice or formality, walked off, leaving him standing with Sam in the gallery. It was getting dark. That is to say, a few gas jets were kindled in this place, which was never light, by way of compliment to the evening which had set in outside. As it was rather warm, some of the tenants of the numerous little rooms which opened into the gallery on either hand had set their doors ajar. Mr. Pickwick peeped into them as he passed along with great curiosity and interest. Here, four or five great hulking fellows, just visible through a cloud of tobacco smoke, were engaged in noisy and riotous conversation over half-emptied pots of beer or playing at all fours with a very greasy pack of cards. In the adjoining room, some solitary tenant might be seen pouring by the light of a feeble tallow candle over a bundle of soiled and tattered papers, yellow with dust and dropping to pieces from age, writing for the hundredth time some lengthened statement of his grievances for the perusal of some great man whose eyes it would never reach or whose heart it would never touch. In a third, a man with his wife and a whole crowd of children might be seen making up a scanty bed on the ground or upon a few chairs for the younger ones to pass the night in. And in a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth, and a seventh, the noise and the beer and the tobacco smoke and the cards all came over again in greater force than before. In the galleries themselves, and more especially on the staircases, there lingered a great number of people who came there, some because their rooms were empty and lonesome, others because their rooms were full and hot. The greater part, because they were restless and uncomfortable and not possessed of the secret of exactly knowing what to do with themselves. There were many classes of people here, from the laboring man in his fustian jacket to the broken down spendthrift in his shawl dressing gown, most appropriately out at elbows. But there was the same air about them all, a kind of listless jailbird careless swagger, a vagabondish who's afraid sort of berry, which is wholly indescribable in words, but which any man can understand in one moment, if he wish, by setting foot in the nearest debtor's prison and looking at the very first group of people he sees there with the same interest as Mr. Pickwick did. It strikes me, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, leaning over the iron rail at the stairhead. It strikes me, Sam, that imprisonment for debt is scarcely any punishment at all. Think not, sir, inquired Mr. Weller. You see how these fellows drink and smoke and roar, replied Mr. Pickwick? It's quite impossible that they can mind it much. Ah, that's just the wary thing, sir, rejoined Sam. They don't mind it. It's a regular holiday to them, all porter and skittles. It's Totherbuns's gets done over with this sort of thing. Them downhearted fellows can't spig of a at the beer, nor play at skittles neither. Them as would pay if they could, and gets low by being boxed up. I'll tell you what it is, sir. Them as is always an island in public houses, it don't damage it all. And them as is always a work, and when they can, it damages too much. It's unequal, as my father used to say when his grog warrant made half and half. It's unequal, and that's the fault in it. I think you're right, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick after a few moments' reflection. Quite right. Perhaps now and then there's some honest people as likes it, observed Mr. Weller in a ruminative tone, but I never hear to one, as I can call to mind, except the little dirty-faced man in the brown coat, and that was force of habit. And who was he, inquired Mr. Pickwick? Why, that's just the weary point as nobody never knowed, replied Sam. But what did he do? Why, he did what many men as has been much better knowed has done in their time, sir, replied Sam. He run a match again the constable and fun it. In other words, I suppose, said Mr. Pickwick, he got into debt. That's that, sir, replied Sam. And in course of time he come here in consequence. It weren't much, execution for nine pound nothing, multiplied by five for costs, but, however, here he stopped for seventeen year. If he got any wrinkles in his face, they were stopped up the dirt. For both the dirty-faced and the brown coat was just the same at the end of that time as they was at the beginning. He was a wary, peaceful, inoffended little quitter and was always a bustling about for somebody or playing racquets and never vinnin' till at last the turn keys they got quite fond in him and he was in the lodge every night, a chattering with them and tellin' stories and all that air. Fun night he was in there as usual, along with a wary old friend of his as was on the lock, then he says all of a sudden, I ain't seen the market outside, Bill, he says, fleet market was there at that time. I ain't seen the market outside, Bill, he says, for seventeen year. I know you ain't, says the turnkey, smoking his pipe. I should like to see it for a minute, Bill, he says. Wary probable, says the turnkey, smoking his pipe wary fierce and making believe he warn' up to what the little man wanted. Bill, says the little man, more abrupt than a four. I've got the fancy in my head. Let me see the public streets once more before I die, and if I ain't struck with apoplexy I'll be back in five minutes by the clock. And what'd become of me if you was struck with apoplexy, said the turnkey? Why, says the little creedur, whoever found me had bring me home, for I've got my card in my pocket, Bill, he says, number twenty, coffee room flight. And that was true, sure enough, for when he wanted to make the acquaintance of any newcomer he used to pull out a little limp card with them words on it and nothing else. In consideration of which he was always called number twenty. The turnkey takes a fixed look at him, and at last he says in a solemn manner, twenty, he says, I'll trust you. You won't get your old friend into trouble, no, my boy. I hope I have something better behind here, says the little man. And as he said it, he hid his little basket wary hard, and then a tear started out of each eye, which was very extraordinary, for it was supposed, as water never touched his face. He shook the turnkey by the hand out event, and never came back again, said Mr. Pickwick. Wrong for once, sir, replied Mr. Weller, for back he come, two minutes before the time, a bylin' with rage, saying how he'd been nearly run over by a hatny coach that he weren't used to it, and he was blow'd if he wouldn't write to the Lord Mayor. They got him pacified at last, and for five years out of that he never even so much as peeped out of the lodge gate. At the expiration of that time he died, I suppose, said Mr. Pickwick. No, he didn't, sir, replied Sam. He got a curiosity to go and taste the beard a new public house over the way, and it was such a wary nice parlor that he took it into his head to go there every night, which he did for a long time, always coming back regular about a quarter of an hour before the gate shut, which was all wary snug and comfortable. At last he began to get so precious jolly that he used to forget how the time vent, or care nothing at all about it, and he went on gettin' later and later till one night his old friend was just as shut in the gate, had turned the key, in fact, when he come up. Hold hard, Bill, he says. What, ain't you come home yet, Fenty, says the turnkey? I thought you was in long ago. No, I wasn't, says the little man with a smile. Well, then, I'll tell you what it is, my friend, says the turnkey, openin' the gate where he's slow and sulky. It's my opinion, as you've got into bad company all late, which I'm wary sorry to see. No, I don't wish to do nothing harsh, he says, but if you can't confine yourself to steady circles and find your way back at regular hours, as sure as you're a stand in there, I'll shut you out altogether. The little man was seized with a violent fit of trembling and never been outside the prison wall's outer words. As Sam concluded, Mr. Pickwick slowly retraced his steps downstairs. After a few thoughtful turns in the painted ground, which, as it was now dark, was nearly deserted, he intimated to Mr. Weller that he thought at high time for him to withdraw for the night, requesting him to seek a bed in some adjacent public house, and return early in the morning to make arrangements for the removal of his master's wardrobe from the Georgian vulture. This request Mr. Samuel Weller prepared to obey, with as good a grace as he could assume, but with a very considerable show of reluctance, nevertheless. He even went so far as to assay sundry ineffectual hints regarding the expediency of stretching himself on the gravel for that night, but finding Mr. Pickwick obstinately deaf to any such suggestions finally withdrew. There is no disguising the fact that Mr. Pickwick felt very low-spirited and uncomfortable, not for lack of society, for the prison was very full, and a bottle of wine would at once have purchased the utmost good fellowship of a few-choice spirits without any more formal ceremony of introduction. But he was alone in the coarse vulgar crowd and felt the depression of spirits and sinking of heart naturally consequent on the reflection that he was cooped and caged up without a prospect of liberation. As to the idea of releasing himself by ministering to the sharpness of Dodson and Fogg, it never for an instant entered his thoughts. In this frame of mind he turned again into the coffee-room gallery and walked slowly to and fro. The place was intolerably dirty and the smell of tobacco smoke perfectly suffocating. There was a perpetual slamming and banging of doors as the people went in and out, and the noise of their voices and footsteps echoed and re-echoed through the passages constantly. A young woman with a child in her arms who seemed scarcely able to crawl from emaciation and misery was walking up and down the passage in conversation with her husband, who had no other place to see her in. As they passed Mr. Pickwick he could hear the female sob bitterly, and once she burst into such a passion of grief that she was compelled to lean against the wall for support while the man took the child in his arms and tried to soothe her. Mr. Pickwick's heart was really too full to bear it, and he went upstairs to bed. Now although the warder's room was a very uncomfortable one, being in every point of decoration and convenience several hundred degrees inferior to the common infirmary of a county jail, it had at present the merit of being wholly deserted, saved by Mr. Pickwick himself. So he sat down at the foot of his little iron bedstead, and began to wonder how much a year the warder made out of the dirty room. Having satisfied himself by mathematical calculation that the apartment was about equal in annual value to the freehold of a small street in the suburbs of London, he took to wondering what possible temptation could have induced a dingy looking fly that was crawling over his pantaloons to come into a close prison when he had the choice of so many airy situations, a course of meditation which led him to the irresistible conclusion that the insect was insane. After settling this point he began to be conscious that he was getting sleepy, whereupon he took his nightcap out of the pocket in which he had had the precaution to stow it in the morning, and leisurely undressing himself got into bed and fell asleep. Bravo! Heel over toe! Cut and shuffle! Pay away at it, Zephyr! I'm smothered at the opera-houses in your proper hemisphere. Keep it up! Hurray! These expressions, delivered in a most boisterous tone, and accompanied with loud peals of laughter, roused Mr. Pickwick from one of those sound slumbers which, lasting in reality some half-hour, seemed to the sleeper to have been protracted for three weeks or a month. The voice had no sooner ceased than the room was shaken with such violence that the windows rattled in their frames and the bed-steads trembled again. Mr. Pickwick started up and remained for some minutes fixed in mute astonishment at the scene before him. On the floor of the room a man in a broad-skirted green coat with corduroy-knee-smalls and gray cotton stockings was performing the most popular steps of a hornpipe with a slang and burlesque caricature of grace and lightness which, combined with the very appropriate character of his costume, was inexpressibly absurd. Another man, evidently very drunk, who had probably been tumbled into bed by his companions, was sitting up between the sheets warbling as much as he could recollect of a comic song with the most intensely sentimental feeling and expression, while a third seated on one of the bed-steads was applauding both performers with the air of a profound connoisseur, and encouraging them by such ebullitions of feeling as had already roused Mr. Pickwick from his sleep. This last man was an admirable specimen of a class of gentry which never can be seen in full perfection but in such places. They may be met with in an imperfect state occasionally about stable yards and public houses, but they never attain their full bloom except in these hot beds, which would almost seem to be considerably provided by the legislature for the sole purpose of rearing them. He was a tall fellow with an olive complexion, long dark hair and very thick bushy whiskers meeting under his chin. He wore no neckerchief, as he had been playing rackets all day, and his open-shirt collar displayed their full luxuriance. On his head he wore one of the common eighteen-penny French skull-caps with a gaudy tassel dangling therefrom, very happily in keeping with the common fustian coat. His legs, which being long, were afflicted with weakness, graced a pair of Oxford mixture trousers made to show the full symmetry of those limbs. Being somewhat negligently braced, however, and moreover but imperfectly buttoned, they fell in a series of not the most graceful folds over a pair of shoes sufficiently down at heel to display a pair of very soiled white stockings. There was a rakish vagabond smartness and a kind of boastful rascality about the whole man that was worth a mine of gold. This figure was the first to perceive that Mr. Pickwick was looking on, upon which he winked to the Zephyr and entreated him, with mock gravity, not to wake the gentleman. "'But bless the gentleman's honest heart and soul,' said the Zephyr, turning round and affecting the extremity of surprise. The gentleman is awake.' "'Hmmm, Shakespeare, how do you do, sir? How is Marion Sarah, sir, and the dear old lady at home, sir? Will you have the kindness to put my compliments into the first little parcel you're sending that way, sir, and say that I would have sent them before, only I was afraid they might be broken in the wagon, sir? Don't overwhelm the gentleman with ordinary civilities when you see he's anxious to have something to drink,' said the gentleman with the whiskers or the jokers' air. "'Why don't you ask the gentleman what he'll take?' "'Dear me, I quite forgot,' replied the other. "'What will you take, sir? Will you take port wine, sir, or sherry wine, sir? I can recommend the ale, sir, or perhaps you'd like to taste the porter, sir. Allow me to have the felicity of hanging up your nightcap, sir.' With this the speaker snatched that article of dress from Mr. Pickwick's head and fixed it in a twinkling on that of the drunken man, who, firmly impressed with the belief that he was delighting a numerous assembly, continued to hammer away at the comic song in the most melancholy strains imaginable. Taking a man's nightcap from his brow by violent means and adjusting it on the head of an unknown gentleman of dirty exterior, however ingenious a witticism in itself, is unquestionably one of those which come under the denomination of practical jokes. Viewing the matter precisely in this light, Mr. Pickwick, without the slightest intimation of his purpose, sprang vigorously out of bed, struck the zephyr so smart a blow in the chest as to deprive him of a considerable portion of the commodity which sometimes bears his name, and then, recapturing his nightcap, boldly placed himself in an attitude of defense. Now, said Mr. Pickwick, gasping no less from excitement than from the expenditure of so much energy, come on, both of you, both of you. With this liberal invitation the worthy gentleman communicated a revolving motion to his clenched fists by way of appalling his antagonists with a display of science. It might have been Mr. Pickwick's very unexpected gallantry, or it might have been the complicated manner in which he had got himself out of bed and fallen all in a mass upon the hornpipe man that touched his adversaries. Touched they were, for instead of then and there making an attempt to commit manslaughter, as Mr. Pickwick implicitly believed they would have done, they paused, stared at each other a short time, and finally laughed outright. Well, you're a trump, and I like you all the better for it, said the Zephyr. Now jump into bed again, or you'll catch the rheumatics. No malice, I hope, said the man, extending a hand the size of the yellow clump of fingers which sometimes swings over a glover's door. Certainly not, said Mr. Pickwick with great alacrity. For now that the excitement was over he began to feel rather cool about the legs. Allow me the honor, said the gentleman with the whiskers, lifting his dexter hand and aspirating the H. With much pleasure, sir, said Mr. Pickwick, and having executed a very long and solemn shake he got into bed again. My name is Smangle, sir, said the man with the whiskers. Oh, said Mr. Pickwick, mine is Mivens, said the man in the stockings. I am delighted to hear it, sir, said Mr. Pickwick. Hem, coughed Mr. Smangle. Did you speak, sir, said Mr. Pickwick? No, I did not, sir, said Mr. Smangle. All this was very genteel and pleasant, and to make matters still more comfortable, Mr. Smangle assured Mr. Pickwick a great many more times that he entertained a very high respect for the feelings of a gentleman which sentiments, indeed, did him infinite credit as he could be in no way supposed to understand them. Are you going through the court, sir, inquired Mr. Smangle? Through the what, said Mr. Pickwick? Through the court, Portugal Street, the court for relief of, you know. Oh, no, replied Mr. Pickwick, no, I am not. Going out, perhaps, suggested Mr. Mivens. I fear not, replied Mr. Pickwick. I refuse to pay some damages, and I'm here in consequence. Ah, said Mr. Smangle, paper has been my ruin. A stationer, I presume, sir, said Mr. Pickwick innocently. Stationer? No, no, confound and curse me, not so low as that. No, trade, when I say paper, I mean bills. Oh, you use the word in that sense, I see, said Mr. Pickwick. Dammy, a gentleman must expect reverses, said Smangle. What of that? Here am I in the Fleet Prison. Well, good, what then? I'm none the worse for that, am I? Not a bit, replied Mr. Mivens, and he was quite right. For so far from Mr. Smangle being any the worse for it, he was something the better in as much as to qualify himself for the place, had attained gratuitous possession of certain articles of jewelry, which long before that had found their way to the pawnbrokers. Well, but come, said Mr. Smangle, this is dry work. Let's rinse our mouths with a drop of burnt sherry. The last comer shall stand it. Mivens shall fetch it, and I'll help to drink it. That's a fair and gentleman-like division of labor, anyhow, curse me. Unwilling to hazard another quarrel, Mr. Pickwick gladly assented to the proposition, and consigned the money to Mr. Mivens, who, as it was nearly eleven o'clock, lost no time in repairing to the coffee-room on his errand. I say, whispered Smangle, the moment his friend had left the room, what did you give him? Half a sovereign, said Mr. Pickwick. He's a devilish, pleasant, gentlemanly dog, said Mr. Smangle, infernal pleasant. I don't know anybody more so, but here Mr. Smangle stopped short and shook his head dubiously. You don't think there is any probability of his appropriating the money to his own use, said Mr. Pickwick. Oh, no! Mind, I don't say that. I expressly say that he's a devilish, gentlemanly fellow, said Mr. Smangle. But I think perhaps, if somebody went down, just to see that he didn't dip his beak into the jug by accident, or make some confounded mistake in losing the money as he came upstairs, it would be as well. Here, you, sir, just run downstairs and look after that gentleman, will you? This request was addressed to a little, timid-looking, nervous man whose appearance bespoke great poverty, and who had been crouching on his bedstead all this while, apparently stupefied by the novelty of his situation. You know where the coffee-room is, said Smangle. Just run down and tell that gentleman you've come to help him up with the jug, or stop, I'll tell you what. I'll tell you how we'll do him, said Smangle, with a cunning look. How, said Mr. Pickwick, send down word that he's to spend the change in cigars. Capital thought. Run and tell him that, do you hear? They shan't be wasted, continued Smangle, turning to Mr. Pickwick. I'll smoke him. This maneuvering was so exceedingly ingenious, and with all performed with such immovable composure and coolness, that Mr. Pickwick would have had no wish to disturb it, even if he had had the power. In a short time Mr. Mivens returned, bearing the sherry, which Mr. Smangle dispensed in two little cracked mugs, considerably remarking, with reference to himself, that a gentleman must not be particular under such circumstances, and that for his part he was not too proud to drink out of the jug, in which, to show his sincerity, he forthwith pledged the company in a draft which half emptied it. An excellent understanding, having been, by these means, promoted, Mr. Smangle proceeded to entertain his hearers with the relation of diverse romantic adventures in which he had been from time to time engaged, involving various interesting anecdotes of a thoroughbred horse and a magnificent Jewess, both of surpassing beauty and much coveted by the nobility and gentry of these kingdoms. Long before these elegant extracts from the biography of a gentleman work included, Mr. Mivens had be taken himself to bed, and had set in snoring for the night, leaving the timid stranger and Mr. Pickwick to the full benefit of Mr. Smangle's experiences. Before were the two last named gentlemen as much edified as they might have been by the moving passages narrated. Mr. Pickwick had been in a state of slumber for some time, when he had a faint perception of the drunken man bursting out of fresh with the comic song, and receiving from Mr. Smangle a gentle intimation through the medium of the water jug, that his audience was not musically disposed. Mr. Pickwick then once again dropped off to sleep with a confused consciousness that Mr. Smangle was still engaged in relating a long story, the chief point of which appeared to be that on some occasion, particularly stated and set forth, he had done a bill and a gentleman at the same time. CHAPTER 42 Illustrative, like the preceding one of the old proverb, that adversity brings a man acquainted with strange bedfellows. Likewise, containing Mr. Pickwick's extraordinary and startling announcement to Mr. Samuel Weller. When Mr. Pickwick opened his eyes next morning, first object upon which they rested was Samuel Weller seated upon a small black portmanteau, intently regarding, apparently in a condition of profound abstraction, the stately figure of the dashing Mr. Smangle, while Mr. Smangle himself, who was already partially dressed, was seated on his bedstead, occupied in the desperately hopeless attempt of staring Mr. Weller out of countenance. We say desperately hopeless because Sam, with a comprehensive gaze which took in Mr. Smangle's cap, feet, head, face, legs, and whiskers all at the same time, continued to look steadily on with every demonstration of lively satisfaction, but with no more regard to Mr. Smangle's personal sentiments on the subject than he would have displayed had he been inspecting a wooden statue or a straw-emboweled guy-fox. Well, will you know me again? said Mr. Smangle with a frown. I'd spare you any verse, sir, replied Sam cheerfully. Don't be impertinent to a gentleman, sir, said Mr. Smangle. Not on no account, replied Sam. If you'll tell me when he wakes, I'll be upon the very best extra super-behavior. This observation, having a remote tendency to imply that Mr. Smangle was no gentleman, kindled his ire. Mivans, said Mr. Smangle with a passionate air. What's the office? replied that gentleman from his couch. Who the devil is this fellow? Gad, said Mr. Mivans, looking lazily out from under the bedclothes, I ought to ask you that. Hasn't he any business here? No, replied Mr. Smangle. Then knock him downstairs and tell him not to presume to get up till I come and kick him. Rejoined Mr. Mivans. With this prompt advice, that excellent gentleman again be took himself to slumber. The conversation exhibiting these unequivocal symptoms of verging on the personal, Mr. Pickwick deemed it a fit point at which to interpose. Sam, said Mr. Pickwick. Sir, rejoined that gentleman. Has anything new occurred since last night? Nothing particular, sir, replied Sam, glancing at Mr. Smangle's whiskers. The late pre-wailants of a close and confined atmosphere has been rather favorable to the growth of veeds of an alarming and sanguinary nature. But with that air exception, things is quiet enough. I shall get up, said Mr. Pickwick. Give me some clean things. Whatever hostile intentions Mr. Smangle might have entertained, his thoughts were speedily diverted by the unpacking of the Portmanteau, the contents of which appeared to impress him at once with the most favorable opinion, not only of Mr. Pickwick, but of Sam also. Who, he took an early opportunity of declaring in a tone of voice loud enough for that eccentric personage to overhear, was a regular thoroughbred original, and consequently the very man after his own heart. As to Mr. Pickwick, the affection he conceived for him knew no limits. Now, is there anything I can do for you, my dear sir, said Smangle? Nothing that I am aware of. I am obliged to you, replied Mr. Pickwick. No linen that you want sent to the washer-women's, I know a delightful washer-woman outside that comes for my things twice a week, and if I jove how devilish-lucky this is the day she calls. Shall I put any of those little things up with mine? Don't say anything about the trouble, confound and curset. One gentleman under a cloud is not to put himself a little out of the way to assist another gentleman in the same condition what's human nature. Thus spake Mr. Smangle, edging himself meanwhile, as near as possible to the portmanteau, and beaming forth looks of the most fervent and disinterested friendship. There's nothing you want to give out for the man to brush, my dear creature, is there, resumed Smangle? Nothing would ever, my fine feller, rejoined Sam, taking the reply into his own mouth. Perhaps if one of us was to brush without troubling the man it would be more agreeable for all parties, as the schoolmaster said when the young gentleman objected to being flogged by the butler. And there's nothing I can send in my little box to the washer-women's, is there? Said Smangle, turning from Sam to Mr. Pickwick with an air of some discomforture. Nothing would ever, sir, retorted Sam, I'm afraid the little box must be chock-full of your own as it is. This speech was accompanied with such a very expressive look at that particular portion of Mr. Smangle's attire, by the appearance of which the skill of laundresses in getting up gentlemen's linen is generally tested, that he was feigned to turn upon his heel, and for the present at any rate, to give up all design on Mr. Pickwick's purse and wardrobe. He accordingly retired in Dudgeon to the racket-ground, where he made a light and wholesome breakfast on a couple of the cigars which had been purchased on the previous night. Mr. Mivens, who was no smoker, and whose account for small articles of chandlery had also reached down to the bottom of the slate, and been carried over to the other side, remained in bed, and, in his own words, took it out in sleep. After breakfasting in a small closet attached to the coffee-room, which bore the imposing title of the Snuggery, the temporary inmate of which, in consideration of a small additional charge, had the unspeakable advantage of overhearing all the conversation in the coffee-room aforesaid. And after dispatching Mr. Weller on some necessary errands, Mr. Pickwick repaired to the lodge to consult Mr. Roker concerning his future accommodation. Accommodation, eh? said that gentleman, consulting a large book. Plenty of that, Mr. Pickwick. Your chummage ticket will be on twenty-seven and the third. Oh, said Mr. Pickwick. My what, did you say? Your chummage ticket, replied Mr. Roker, you're up to that? Quite, replied Mr. Pickwick with a smile. Why, said Mr. Roker, it's as plain as Salisbury. You'll have a chummage ticket upon twenty-seven and the third, and then, as is in the room, will be your chums. Are there many of them? Inquired Mr. Pickwick dubiously. Three, replied Mr. Roker. Mr. Pickwick coughed. One of them's a parson, said Mr. Roker, filling up a little piece of paper as he spoke. Another's a butcher, eh? exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. A butcher, repeated Mr. Roker, giving the nib of his pen a tap on the desk, the curate of a disinclination to mark. What a thorough-paced gore he used to be, surely. You remember Tom Martin, Eddie, said Roker, appealing to another man in the lodge, who was pairing the mud off his shoes with a five-and-twenty-bladed pocket knife? I should think so, replied the party address, with a strong emphasis on the personal pronoun. Bless my dear eyes, said Mr. Roker, shaking his head slowly from side to side, and gazing abstractedly out of the grated windows before him, as if he were fondly recalling some peaceful scene of his early youth. It seems but yesterday that he wop the coal-heaver down Fox under the hill by the wharf there. I think I can see him now, coming up the strand between the two streetkeepers, a little sobered by the bruising with a patch of vinegar and brown paper over his right eyelid, and that our lovely bulldog has pinned the little boy, art of words, a following at his heels. What a rum-thing time is, ain't it, Nettie? The gentleman to whom these observations were addressed, who appeared to attest to turn in thoughtful cast, merely echoed the inquiry. Mr. Roker, shaking off the poetical and gloomy train of thought into which he had been betrayed, descended to the common business of life and resumed his pen. Do you know what the third gentleman is, inquired Mr. Pickwick, not very much gratified by this description of his future associates? What is that, Simpson, Nettie? said Mr. Roker, turning to his companion. What, Simpson? said Nettie. Why, him and twenty-seven and the third, that this gentleman is going to be chum-done. Oh, him! replied Nettie. He's nothing exactly. He was a horse-chanter. He's a leg now. Ah, so I thought we joined Mr. Roker, closing the book, replacing the small piece of paper in Mr. Pickwick's hands. That's the ticket, sir. Very much perplexed by the summary disposition of his person, Mr. Pickwick walked back into the prison, revolving in his mind what he had better do. Convinced, however, that before he took any other steps it would be advisable to see and hold personal converse with the three gentlemen with whom it was proposed to quarter him, he made the best of his way to the third flight. After groping about in the gallery for some time, attempting in the dim light to decipher the numbers on the different doors, he at length appealed to a pot boy who happened to be pursuing his morning occupation of gleaning for pewter. Which is twenty-seven, my good fellow, said Mr. Pickwick. Five doors farther on, replied the pot boy, there's the likeness of a man being hung and smoking the while chocked outside the door. Guided by this direction, Mr. Pickwick proceeded slowly along the gallery, until he encountered the portrait of a gentleman above described, upon whose countenance he tapped with the knuckle of his forefinger, gently at first and then audibly. After repeating this process several times without effect, he ventured to open the door and peep in. There was only one man in the room, and he was leaning out of window as far as he could without overbalancing himself, endeavouring with great perseverance to spit upon the crown of the head of a personal friend on the parade below. As neither speaking, coughing, sneezing, knocking, nor any other ordinary mode of attracting attention made this person aware of the presence of a visitor, Mr. Pickwick, after some delay, stepped up to the window and pulled him gently by the coat tail. The individual brought in his head and shoulders with great swiftness, and surveying Mr. Pickwick from head to foot, demanded in a surly tone what the something beginning with the capital H he wanted. I believe, said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his ticket. I believe this is twenty-seven and the third. Well, replied the gentleman, I have come here in consequence of receiving this bit of paper, rejoined Mr. Pickwick. Hand it over, said the gentleman. Mr. Pickwick complied. I think Roker might have chummed you somewhere else, said Mr. Simpson, before it was the leg, after a very discontented sort of a pause. Mr. Pickwick thought so also, but under all the circumstances he considered it a matter of sound policy to be silent. Mr. Simpson mused for a few moments after this, and then thrusting his head out of the window gave a shrill whistle and pronounced some word aloud several times. What the word was Mr. Pickwick could not distinguish, but he rather inferred that it must be some nickname which distinguished Mr. Martin from the fact of a great number of gentlemen on the ground below immediately proceeding to cry Butcher! in imitation of the tone in which that useful class of society are wont, diurnally, to make their presence known at area railings. Subsequent occurrences confirmed the accuracy of Mr. Pickwick's impression. For, in a few seconds, a gentleman prematurely broad for his years, clothed in a professional blue jean frock and top boots with circular toes, entered the room nearly out of breath, closely followed by another gentleman in very shabby black and a seal skin cap. The latter gentleman, who fastened his coat all the way up to his chin by means of a pin and a button alternately, had a very coarse red face and looked like a drunken chaplain which indeed he was. These two gentlemen, having by turns perused Mr. Pickwick's billet, the one expressed his opinion that it was a rig, and the other his conviction that it was a go. During record of their feelings in these very intelligible terms, they looked at Mr. Pickwick and each other in awkward silence. It's an aggravating thing, just as we got the bed so snug, said the chaplain, looking at three dirty mattresses, each rolled up in a blanket, which occupied one corner of the room during the day, and formed a kind of slab on which were placed an old cracked basin, ewer and soap dish of common yellow earthenware with a blue flower. Very aggravating. Mr. Martin expressed the same opinion in rather stronger terms. Mr. Simpson, after having led a variety of expletive adjectives loose upon society without any substantive to accompany them, tucked up his sleeves and began to wash the greens for dinner. While this was going on, Mr. Pickwick had been eyeing the room, which was filthily dirty, and smelt intolerably close. There was no vestige of either carpet, curtain, or blind. There was not even a closet in it. Unquestionably there were but few things to put away if there had been one, but however few in number are small in individual amount. Still, remnants of loaves and pieces of cheese and damp towels and scraggs of meat and articles of wearing apparel and mutilated crackery and bellows without nozzles and toasting forks without prongs do present somewhat of an uncomfortable appearance when they are scattered about the floor of a small apartment, which is the common sitting and sleeping room of three idle men. I suppose this can be managed somehow, said the butcher, after a pretty long silence. What will you take to go out? I beg your pardon, replied Mr. Pickwick. What did you say? I hardly understand you. What will you take to be paid out, said the butcher? The regular chummage is two and six. Will you take three, Bob? And a vendor, suggested the clerical gentleman. Well, I don't mind that. It's only toughens a piece more, said Mr. Martin. What do you say now? We'll pay you out for three and six pence a week. Come. And stand a gallon of beer down, chimed in Mr. Simpson. There. And drink it on the spot, said the chaplain. Now, I really am so wholly ignorant of the rules of this place, returned Mr. Pickwick, that I do not yet comprehend you. Can I live anywhere else? I thought I could not. At this inquiry, Mr. Martin looked with the countenance of excessive surprise at his two friends, and then each gentleman pointed with his right thumb over his left shoulder. This action, imperfectly described in words by the very feeble term of over the left, when performed by any number of ladies or gentlemen who are accustomed to acting unison, has a very graceful and airy effect. Its expression is one of light and playful sarcasm. Can you, repeated Mr. Martin, with a smile of pity, while if I knew as little of life as that I'd eat my hat and swallow the buckle-hole, said the clerical gentleman, so would I, added the sporting one solemnly. After this introductory preface, the three chums informed Mr. Pickwick in a breath that money was in the fleet just what money was out of it, that it would instantly procure him almost anything he desired, and that, supposing he had it and had no objection to spend it, if he only signified his wish to have a room to himself, he might take possession of one furnished and fitted to boot in half an hour's time. With this the parties separated, very much to their common satisfaction. Mr. Pickwick once more retracing his steps to the lodge, and the three companions adjourning to the coffee-room, there to spend the five shillings which the clerical gentleman had with admirable prudence and foresight borrowed of him for the purpose. I noted, said Mr. Roker, with a chuckle when Mr. Pickwick stated the object with which he had returned, didn't I say so, Nettie? The philosophical owner of the universal pen-knife growled an affirmative. I knowed you'd want a room for yourself, bless you, said Mr. Roker. Let me see. You'll want some furniture. You'll hire that of me, I suppose. That's the regular thing. With great pleasure, replied Mr. Pickwick. There's a capital room up in the coffee-room flight that belongs to a chancery prisoner, said Mr. Roker. It'll stand you in a pound a week, I suppose you don't mind that. Not at all, said Mr. Pickwick. Just step there with me, said Roker, taking up his hat with great alacrity. The matter settled in five minutes. Lord, why didn't you say at first that you was willing to come down handsome? The matter was soon arranged, as the turnkey had foretold. The chancery prisoner had been there long enough to have lost his friends, fortune, home, and happiness, and to have acquired the right of having a room to himself. As he labored, however, under the inconvenience of often wanting a morsel of bread, he eagerly listened to Mr. Pickwick's proposal to rent the apartment, and readily covenanted and agreed to yield him up the sole and undisturbed possession thereof, in consideration of the weekly payment of twenty shillings, from which fund he furthermore contracted to pay out any person or persons that might be chummed upon it. As they struck the bargain, Mr. Pickwick surveyed him with a painful interest. He was a tall, gaunt, cadaverous man in an old great coat and slippers, with sunken cheeks and a restless, eager eye. His lips were bloodless, and his bones sharp and thin. God help him. The ironed teeth of confinement and privation had been slowly filing him down for twenty years. And where will you live, meanwhile, sir? said Mr. Pickwick, as he laid the amount of the first week's rent in advance on the tottering table. The man gathered up the money with a trembling hand, and replied that he didn't know yet. He must go and see where he could move his bed to. I am afraid, sir, said Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand gently and compassionately on his arm. I am afraid you will have to live in some noisy, crowded place. Now, pray, consider this room your own when you want quiet. Or when any of your friends come to see you. Friends, interposed the man in a voice which rattled in his throat, if I lay dead at the bottom of the deepest mine in the world, tight-screwed down and soldered in my coffin, rotting in the dark and filthy ditch that drags its slime along beneath the foundations of this prison, I could not be more forgotten or unheeded than I am here. I am a dead man, dead to society. Without the pity they bestow on those whose souls have passed to judgment. Friends to see me, my God, I have sunk from the prime of life into old age in this place, and there is not one to raise his hand above my bed when I lie dead upon it and say it is a blessing he has gone. The excitement which had cast an unwanted light over the man's face while he spoke, subsided as he concluded, and pressing his withered hands together in a hasty and disordered manner he shuffled from the room. It's rather rusty, said Mr. Roker with a smile. Ah, they're like the elephants. They feel it now and then, and it makes them wild. Having made this deeply sympathizing remark, Mr. Roker entered upon his arrangements with such expedition that in a short time the room was furnished with a carpet, six chairs, a table, a sofa-bedstead, a tea-kettle, and various small articles on hire at the very reasonable rate of seven and twenty shillings and six pence per week. Now, is there anything more we can do for you, inquired Mr. Roker, looking round with great satisfaction and gaily chinking the first week's hire in his closed fist? Why, yes, said Mr. Pickwick, who had been musing deeply for some time. Are there any people here who run on errands and so forth? Outside, do you mean, inquired Mr. Roker? Yes, I mean who are able to go outside, not prisoners. Yes, there is, said Roker. There's an unfortunate devil who has got a friend on the poor side that's glad to do anything of that sort. He's been running odd jobs and that for the last two months. Shall I send him? If you please, rejoin Mr. Pickwick, stay, no. The poor side, you say? I should like to see it, I'll go to him myself. The poor side of a debtor's prison is, as its name imports, that in which the most miserable and abject class of debtors are confined. A prisoner, having declared upon the poor side, pays neither rent nor chummage. His fees, upon entering and leaving the jail, are reduced in amount, and he becomes entitled to a share of some small quantities of food to provide which a few charitable persons have from time to time left trifling legacies in their wills. Most of our readers will remember that until within a very few years past, there was a kind of iron cage in the wall of the fleet prison within which was posted some man of hungry looks, who from time to time rattled a money box and exclaimed in a mournful voice, pray remember the poor debtors, pray remember the poor debtors. The receipts of this box, when there were any, were divided among the poor prisoners, and the men on the poor side relieved each other in this degrading office. Although this custom has been abolished and the cage is now boarded up, the miserable and destitute condition of these unhappy persons remains the same. We no longer suffer them to appeal at the prison gates to the charity and compassion of the passers-by, but we still leave unblotted the leaves of our statute book for the reverence and admiration of succeeding ages, the just and wholesome law which declares that the sturdy felon shall be fed and clothed, and that the penniless debtor shall be left to die of starvation and nakedness. This is no fiction. Not a week passes over our head, but in every one of our prisons for debt, some of these men must inevitably expire in the slow agonies of want if they were not relieved by their fellow prisoners. Turning these things in his mind as he mounted the narrow staircase at the foot of which Roker had left him, Mr. Pickwick gradually worked himself to the boiling over point, and so excited was he with his reflections on this subject that he had burst into the room to which he had been directed before he had any distinct recollection, either of the place in which he was or of the object of his visit. The general aspect of the room recalled him to himself at once, but he had no sooner cast his eye on the figure of a man who was brooding over the dusty fire than letting his hat fall on the floor he stood perfectly fixed and immovable with astonishment. Yes, in tattered garments and without a coat, his common calico shirt, yellow and in rags, his hair hanging over his face, his features changed with suffering and pinched with famine. There sat Mr. Alfred Jingle, his head resting on his hands, his eyes fixed upon the fire, and his whole appearance denoting misery and dejection. Near him, leaning listlessly against the wall, stood a strong-built countryman flicking with a worn-out hunting with the top boot that adorned his right foot, his left being thrust into an old slipper. Horses, dogs, and drink had brought him there, pel-mel. There was a rusty spur on the solitary boot, which he occasionally jerked into the empty air, at the same time giving the boot a smart blow and muttering some of the sounds by which a sportsman encourages his horse. He was riding, in imagination, some desperate steeple-chase at that moment, poor wretch. He never rode a match on the swiftest animal in his costly stud, with half the speed at which he had torn along the course that ended in the fleet. On the opposite side of the room an old man was seated on a small wooden box, with his eyes riveted on the floor, and his face settled into an expression of the deepest and most hopeless despair. A young girl, his little granddaughter, was hanging about him, endeavoring with a thousand childish devices to engage his attention, but the old man neither saw nor heard her. The voice that had been music to him, and the eyes that had been light, fell coldly on his senses. His limbs were shaking with disease, and the palsy had fastened on his mind. There were two or three other men in the room, congregated in a little knot, and noiselessly talking among themselves. There was a lean and haggard woman, too, a prisoner's wife, who was watering with great solicitude the wretched stump of a dried-up withered plant, which, it was plain to see, could never send forth a green leaf again. Two true and emblem perhaps of the office she had come there to discharge. Such were the objects which presented themselves to Mr. Pickwick's view, as he looked round him in amazement. The noise of someone stumbling hastily into the room roused him. Turning his eyes towards the door, they encountered the newcomer, and in him, through his rags and dirt, he recognized the familiar features of Mr. Job Trotter. Mr. Pickwick, exclaimed Job, allowed. A, said Jingle, starting from his seat. Mr. So it is. Queer place, strange things, serves me right, very. Mr. Jingle thrust his hands into the place where his trousers' pockets used to be, and dropping his chin upon his breast, sank back into his chair. Mr. Pickwick was affected. The two men looked so very miserable. The sharp and voluntary glance Jingle had cast at a small piece of raw loin of mutton, which Job had brought in with him, said more of their reduced state than two hours' explanation could have done. Mr. Pickwick looked mildly at Jingle and said, I should like to speak to you in private. Will you step out for an instant? Certainly, said Jingle, rising hastily. Can't step far. No danger of overwalking yourself here. Spike Park grounds pretty romantic, but not extensive, open for public inspection, family always in town, housekeeper desperately careful, very. You have forgotten your coats, said Mr. Pickwick, as they walked out to the staircase and closed the door after them. A, said Jingle, spout, dear relation, uncle Tom, couldn't help it, must eat, you know, wants of nature and all that. What do you mean? Gone, my dear sir, last coat, can't help it. Lived on a pair of boots whole fortnight, silk umbrella ivory handle, weak. Fact, honor, asked Job, knows it. Lived for three weeks upon a pair of boots and a silk umbrella with an ivory handle, exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who had only heard of such things in shipwrecks or read of them in Constable's miscellany. True, said Jingle, nodding his head, pawnbroker's shop, duplicates here, small sums, mere nothing, all rascals. Oh, said Mr. Pickwick, much relieved by this explanation, I understand you. You have pawned your wardrobe. Everything, Job's too, all shirts gone, nevermind, saves washing, nothing soon, lie in bed, starve, die, in quest, little bone house, poor prisoner, common necessaries hushed up, gentlemen of the jury, wardens, tradesmen, keep it snug, natural death, coroner's order, workhouse funeral, serve him right, all over, drop the curtain. Jingle delivered this singular summary of his prospects in life with his accustomed volubility and with various twitches of the countenance to counterfeit smiles. Mr. Pickwick easily perceived that his recklessness was assumed and looking him full but not unkindly in the face saw that his eyes were moist with tears. Good fellow, said Jingle, pressing his hand and turning his head away, ungrateful dog, boys to cry can't help it. Bad fever, weak, ill, hungry. Deserved at all, but suffered much, very. Holy unable to keep up appearances any longer and perhaps rendered worse by the effort he had made, the dejected stroller sat down on the stairs and covering his face with his hands, sobbed like a child. Come, come, said Mr. Pickwick with considerable emotion. We will see what can be done when I know all about the matter. Here, Job, where is that fellow? Here, sir, replied Job, presenting himself on the staircase. We have described him by the by as having deeply sunken eyes in the vest of times. In his present state of want and distress, he looked as if those features had gone out of town altogether. Here, sir, cried Job. Come here, sir, said Mr. Pickwick, trying to look stern with four large tears running down his waistcoat. Take that, sir. Take what? In the ordinary acceptation of such language, it should have been a blow. As the world runs, it ought to have been a sound-hardy cuff, for Mr. Pickwick had been duped, deceived, and wronged by the destitute outcast, who was now wholly in his power. Must we tell the truth? It was something for Mr. Pickwick's waistcoat pocket, which chinked as it was given into Job's hand, and the giving of which, somehow or other, imparted a sparkle to the eye and a swelling to the heart of our excellent old friend as he hurried away. Sam had returned when Mr. Pickwick reached his own room, and was inspecting the arrangements that had been made for his comfort, with a kind of grim satisfaction which was very pleasant to look upon. Having a decided objection to his master's being there at all, Mr. Weller appeared to consider it a high moral duty not to appear too much pleased with anything that was done, said, suggested, or proposed. Well, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick. Well, sir, replied Mr. Weller. Pretty comfortable now, eh, Sam? Pretty well, sir, responded Sam, looking round him in a disparaging manner. Have you seen Mr. Tupman and our other friends? Yes, I have seen them, sir, and they are coming tomorrow. And was very much surprised to hear they wanted to come today, replied Sam. You have brought the things I wanted? Mr. Weller, in reply, pointed to various packages which he had arranged as neatly as he could in a corner of the room. Very well, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, after a little hesitation. Listen to what I am going to say, Sam. Certainly, sir, rejoined Mr. Weller, fire away, sir. I have felt from the first, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, with much solemnity, that this is not the place to bring a young man to. Nor an old one, neither, sir, observed Mr. Weller. You're quite right, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, but old men may come here through their own healessness and unsuspicion, and young men may be brought here by the selfishness of those they serve. It is better for those young men, in every point of view, that they should not remain here. Do you understand me, Sam? If I know, sir, I do not, replied Mr. Weller doggedly. Try, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick. Well, sir, rejoined Sam, after a short pause. I think I see your drift, and if I do see your drift, it's my opinion that you're coming at a great deal too strong, as the male coachman said to the snowstorm, then it overtook him. I see you comprehend me, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick. Independently of my wish that you should not be idling about a place like this for years to come, I feel that for a debtor in the fleet to be attended by his manservant is a monstrous absurdity. Sam, said Mr. Pickwick, for a time you must leave me. Oh, for a time, eh, sir? Rejoined Mr. Weller, rather sarcastically. Yes, for the time that I remain here, said Mr. Pickwick. Your wages I shall continue to pay. Any one of my three friends will be happy to take you, were it only out of respect to me, and if I ever do leave this place, Sam, added Mr. Pickwick with assumed cheerfulness. If I do, I pledge in my word that you shall return to me instantly. Now I'll tell you what it is, sir, said Mr. Weller in a graven, solemn voice. This here sort of thing won't do it all, so don't let's hear no more about it. I am serious and resolved, Sam, said Mr. Pickwick. You are, are you, sir? inquired Mr. Weller firmly. Very good, sir, then so am I. Thus speaking, Mr. Weller fixed his hand on his head with great precision, and abruptly left the room. Sam cried Mr. Pickwick, calling after him. Sam, here! But the long gallery ceased to re-echo the sound of footsteps. Sam Weller was gone. End of Chapter 42