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Mr. Pickwick felt a great deal too much touched by the warmth ofSam's attachment, to be able to exhibit any manifestation of anger ordispleasure at the precipitate course he had adopted, in voluntarilyconsigning himself to a debtor's prison for an indefinite period. Theonly point on which he persevered in demanding an explanation, was, thename of Sam's detaining creditor; but this Mr. Weller as perseveringlywithheld.

'It ain't o' no use, sir,' said Sam, again and again; 'he's a malicious,bad-disposed, vorldly-minded, spiteful, windictive creetur, with a hardheart as there ain't no soft'nin', as the wirtuous clergyman remarked ofthe old gen'l'm'n with the dropsy, ven he said, that upon the whole hethought he'd rayther leave his property to his vife than build a chapelvith it.'

'But consider, Sam,' Mr. Pickwick remonstrated, 'the sum is so smallthat it can very easily be paid; and having made up My mind that youshall stop with me, you should recollect how much more useful you wouldbe, if you could go outside the walls.' 'Wery much obliged to you, sir,'replied Mr. Weller gravely; 'but I'd rayther not.'

'Rather not do what, Sam?'

'Wy, I'd rayther not let myself down to ask a favour o' this hereunremorseful enemy.'

'But it is no favour asking him to take his money, Sam,' reasoned Mr.Pickwick.

'Beg your pardon, sir,' rejoined Sam, 'but it 'ud be a wery great favourto pay it, and he don't deserve none; that's where it is, sir.'

Here Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his nose with an air of some vexation, Mr.Weller thought it prudent to change the theme of the discourse.

'I takes my determination on principle, Sir,' remarked Sam, 'and youtakes yours on the same ground; wich puts me in mind o' the man askilled his-self on principle, wich o' course you've heerd on, Sir.' Mr.Weller paused when he arrived at this point, and cast a comical look athis master out of the corners of his eyes.

'There is no "of course" in the case, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, graduallybreaking into a smile, in spite of the uneasiness which Sam's obstinacyhad given him. 'The fame of the gentleman in question, never reached myears.'

'No, sir!' exclaimed Mr. Weller. 'You astonish me, Sir; he wos a clerkin a gov'ment office, sir.'

'Was he?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Yes, he wos, Sir,' rejoined Mr. Weller; 'and a wery pleasant gen'l'm'ntoo--one o' the precise and tidy sort, as puts their feet in littleIndia-rubber fire-buckets wen it's wet weather, and never has no otherbosom friends but hare-skins; he saved up his money on principle, wore aclean shirt ev'ry day on principle; never spoke to none of his relationson principle, 'fear they shou'd want to borrow money of him; and wosaltogether, in fact, an uncommon agreeable character. He had his haircut on principle vunce a fortnight, and contracted for his clothes onthe economic principle--three suits a year, and send back the old uns.Being a wery reg'lar gen'l'm'n, he din'd ev'ry day at the same place,where it was one-and-nine to cut off the joint, and a wery goodone-and-nine's worth he used to cut, as the landlord often said, withthe tears a-tricklin' down his face, let alone the way he used topoke the fire in the vinter time, which wos a dead loss o' four-penceha'penny a day, to say nothin' at all o' the aggrawation o' seein' himdo it. So uncommon grand with it too! "POST arter the next gen'l'm'n,"he sings out ev'ry day ven he comes in. "See arter the TIMES, Thomas;let me look at the MORNIN' HERALD, when it's out o' hand; don't forgetto bespeak the CHRONICLE; and just bring the 'TIZER, vill you:" and thenhe'd set vith his eyes fixed on the clock, and rush out, just a quarterof a minit 'fore the time to waylay the boy as wos a-comin' in withthe evenin' paper, which he'd read with sich intense interest andpersewerance as worked the other customers up to the wery confines o'desperation and insanity, 'specially one i-rascible old gen'l'm'n as thevaiter wos always obliged to keep a sharp eye on, at sich times, fear heshould be tempted to commit some rash act with the carving-knife. Vell,Sir, here he'd stop, occupyin' the best place for three hours, and nevertakin' nothin' arter his dinner, but sleep, and then he'd go away to acoffee-house a few streets off, and have a small pot o' coffee and fourcrumpets, arter wich he'd walk home to Kensington and go to bed. Onenight he wos took very ill; sends for a doctor; doctor comes in a greenfly, with a kind o' Robinson Crusoe set o' steps, as he could let downwen he got out, and pull up arter him wen he got in, to perwent thenecessity o' the coachman's gettin' down, and thereby undeceivin' thepublic by lettin' 'em see that it wos only a livery coat as he'd goton, and not the trousers to match. "Wot's the matter?" says the doctor."Wery ill," says the patient. "Wot have you been a-eatin' on?" saysthe doctor. "Roast weal," says the patient. "Wot's the last thing youdewoured?" says the doctor. "Crumpets," says the patient. "That's it!"says the doctor. "I'll send you a box of pills directly, and don'tyou never take no more of 'em," he says. "No more o' wot?" says thepatient--"pills?" "No; crumpets," says the doctor. "Wy?" says thepatient, starting up in bed; "I've eat four crumpets, ev'ry night forfifteen year, on principle." "Well, then, you'd better leave 'em off, onprinciple," says the doctor. "Crumpets is NOT wholesome, Sir," says thedoctor, wery fierce. "But they're so cheap," says the patient, comin'down a little, "and so wery fillin' at the price." "They'd be dear toyou, at any price; dear if you wos paid to eat 'em," says the doctor."Four crumpets a night," he says, "vill do your business in six months!"The patient looks him full in the face, and turns it over in his mindfor a long time, and at last he says, "Are you sure o' that 'ere, Sir?""I'll stake my professional reputation on it," says the doctor. "Howmany crumpets, at a sittin', do you think 'ud kill me off at once?"says the patient. "I don't know," says the doctor. "Do you thinkhalf-a-crown's wurth 'ud do it?" says the patient. "I think it might,"says the doctor. "Three shillins' wurth 'ud be sure to do it, I s'pose?"says the patient. "Certainly," says the doctor. "Wery good," says thepatient; "good-night." Next mornin' he gets up, has a fire lit, ordersin three shillins' wurth o' crumpets, toasts 'em all, eats 'em all, andblows his brains out.'

'What did he do that for?' inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly; for he wasconsiderably startled by this tragical termination of the narrative.

'Wot did he do it for, Sir?' reiterated Sam. 'Wy, in support of hisgreat principle that crumpets wos wholesome, and to show that hewouldn't be put out of his way for nobody!' With such like shiftings andchangings of the discourse, did Mr. Weller meet his master's questioningon the night of his taking up his residence in the Fleet. Finding allgentle remonstrance useless, Mr. Pickwick at length yielded a reluctantconsent to his taking lodgings by the week, of a bald-headed cobbler,who rented a small slip room in one of the upper galleries. To thishumble apartment Mr. Weller moved a mattress and bedding, which he hiredof Mr. Roker; and, by the time he lay down upon it at night, was as muchat home as if he had been bred in the prison, and his whole family hadvegetated therein for three generations.

'Do you always smoke arter you goes to bed, old cock?' inquired Mr.Weller of his landlord, when they had both retired for the night.

'Yes, I does, young bantam,' replied the cobbler.

'Will you allow me to in-quire wy you make up your bed under that 'eredeal table?' said Sam.

''Cause I was always used to a four-poster afore I came here, and I findthe legs of the table answer just as well,' replied the cobbler.

'You're a character, sir,' said Sam.

'I haven't got anything of the kind belonging to me,' rejoined thecobbler, shaking his head; 'and if you want to meet with a good one, I'mafraid you'll find some difficulty in suiting yourself at this registeroffice.'

The above short dialogue took place as Mr. Weller lay extended on hismattress at one end of the room, and the cobbler on his, at the other;the apartment being illumined by the light of a rush-candle, and thecobbler's pipe, which was glowing below the table, like a red-hot coal.The conversation, brief as it was, predisposed Mr. Weller strongly inhis landlord's favour; and, raising himself on his elbow, he took a morelengthened survey of his appearance than he had yet had either time orinclination to make.

He was a sallow man--all cobblers are; and had a strong bristlybeard--all cobblers have. His face was a queer, good-tempered,crooked-featured piece of workmanship, ornamented with a couple ofeyes that must have worn a very joyous expression at one time, for theysparkled yet. The man was sixty, by years, and Heaven knows how oldby imprisonment, so that his having any look approaching to mirth orcontentment, was singular enough. He was a little man, and, being halfdoubled up as he lay in bed, looked about as long as he ought to havebeen without his legs. He had a great red pipe in his mouth, andwas smoking, and staring at the rush-light, in a state of enviableplacidity.

'Have you been here long?' inquired Sam, breaking the silence which hadlasted for some time.

'Twelve year,' replied the cobbler, biting the end of his pipe as hespoke.

'Contempt?' inquired Sam. The cobbler nodded.

'Well, then,' said Sam, with some sternness, 'wot do you perseverein bein' obstinit for, vastin' your precious life away, in this heremagnified pound? Wy don't you give in, and tell the Chancellorship thatyou're wery sorry for makin' his court contemptible, and you won't do sono more?'

The cobbler put his pipe in the corner of his mouth, while he smiled,and then brought it back to its old place again; but said nothing.

'Wy don't you?' said Sam, urging his question strenuously.

'Ah,' said the cobbler, 'you don't quite understand these matters. Whatdo you suppose ruined me, now?'

'Wy,' said Sam, trimming the rush-light, 'I s'pose the beginnin' wos,that you got into debt, eh?'

'Never owed a farden,' said the cobbler; 'try again.'

'Well, perhaps,' said Sam, 'you bought houses, wich is delicate Englishfor goin' mad; or took to buildin', wich is a medical term for bein'incurable.'

The cobbler shook his head and said, 'Try again.'

'You didn't go to law, I hope?' said Sam suspiciously.

'Never in my life,' replied the cobbler.

'The fact is, I was ruined by having money left me.'

'Come, come,' said Sam, 'that von't do. I wish some rich enemy 'ud tryto vork my destruction in that 'ere vay. I'd let him.'

'Oh, I dare say you don't believe it,' said the cobbler, quietlysmoking his pipe. 'I wouldn't if I was you; but it's true for all that.'

'How wos it?' inquired Sam, half induced to believe the fact already, bythe look the cobbler gave him.

'Just this,' replied the cobbler; 'an old gentleman that I worked for,down in the country, and a humble relation of whose I married--she'sdead, God bless her, and thank Him for it!--was seized with a fit andwent off.'

'Where?' inquired Sam, who was growing sleepy after the numerous eventsof the day.

'How should I know where he went?' said the cobbler, speaking throughhis nose in an intense enjoyment of his pipe. 'He went off dead.'

'Oh, that indeed,' said Sam. 'Well?'

'Well,' said the cobbler, 'he left five thousand pound behind him.'

'And wery gen-teel in him so to do,' said Sam.

'One of which,' continued the cobbler, 'he left to me, 'cause I marriedhis relation, you see.'

'Wery good,' murmured Sam.

'And being surrounded by a great number of nieces and nevys, as wasalways quarrelling and fighting among themselves for the property, hemakes me his executor, and leaves the rest to me in trust, to divide itamong 'em as the will prowided.'

'Wot do you mean by leavin' it on trust?' inquired Sam, waking up alittle. 'If it ain't ready-money, were's the use on it?'

'It's a law term, that's all,' said the cobbler.

'I don't think that,' said Sam, shaking his head. 'There's wery littletrust at that shop. Hows'ever, go on.' 'Well,' said the cobbler, 'whenI was going to take out a probate of the will, the nieces and nevys,who was desperately disappointed at not getting all the money, enters acaveat against it.' 'What's that?' inquired Sam.

'A legal instrument, which is as much as to say, it's no go,' repliedthe cobbler.

'I see,' said Sam, 'a sort of brother-in-law o' the have-his-carcass.Well.'

'But,' continued the cobbler, 'finding that they couldn't agree amongthemselves, and consequently couldn't get up a case against the will,they withdrew the caveat, and I paid all the legacies. I'd hardly doneit, when one nevy brings an action to set the will aside. The case comeson, some months afterwards, afore a deaf old gentleman, in a back roomsomewhere down by Paul's Churchyard; and arter four counsels had taken aday a-piece to bother him regularly, he takes a week or two to consider,and read the evidence in six volumes, and then gives his judgment thathow the testator was not quite right in his head, and I must pay all themoney back again, and all the costs. I appealed; the case come on beforethree or four very sleepy gentlemen, who had heard it all before in theother court, where they're lawyers without work; the only differencebeing, that, there, they're called doctors, and in the other placedelegates, if you understand that; and they very dutifully confirmed thedecision of the old gentleman below. After that, we went into Chancery,where we are still, and where I shall always be. My lawyers have had allmy thousand pound long ago; and what between the estate, as they callit, and the costs, I'm here for ten thousand, and shall stop here, tillI die, mending shoes. Some gentlemen have talked of bringing it beforeParliament, and I dare say would have done it, only they hadn't time tocome to me, and I hadn't power to go to them, and they got tired of mylong letters, and dropped the business. And this is God's truth, withoutone word of suppression or exaggeration, as fifty people, both in thisplace and out of it, very well know.'

The cobbler paused to ascertain what effect his story had produced onSam; but finding that he had dropped asleep, knocked the ashes out ofhis pipe, sighed, put it down, drew the bed-clothes over his head, andwent to sleep, too.

Mr. Pickwick was sitting at breakfast, alone, next morning (Sam beingbusily engaged in the cobbler's room, polishing his master's shoes andbrushing the black gaiters) when there came a knock at the door, which,before Mr. Pickwick could cry 'Come in!' was followed by the appearanceof a head of hair and a cotton-velvet cap, both of which articles ofdress he had no difficulty in recognising as the personal property ofMr. Smangle.

'How are you?' said that worthy, accompanying the inquiry with a scoreor two of nods; 'I say--do you expect anybody this morning? Threemen--devilish gentlemanly fellows--have been asking after youdownstairs, and knocking at every door on the hall flight; for whichthey've been most infernally blown up by the collegians that had thetrouble of opening 'em.'

'Dear me! How very foolish of them,' said Mr. Pickwick, rising. 'Yes;I have no doubt they are some friends whom I rather expected to see,yesterday.'

'Friends of yours!' exclaimed Smangle, seizing Mr. Pickwick by the hand.'Say no more. Curse me, they're friends of mine from this minute, andfriends of Mivins's, too. Infernal pleasant, gentlemanly dog, Mivins,isn't he?' said Smangle, with great feeling.

'I know so little of the gentleman,' said Mr. Pickwick, hesitating,'that I--'

'I know you do,' interrupted Smangle, clasping Mr. Pickwick by theshoulder. 'You shall know him better. You'll be delighted with him. Thatman, Sir,' said Smangle, with a solemn countenance, 'has comic powersthat would do honour to Drury Lane Theatre.'

'Has he indeed?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Ah, by Jove he has!' replied Smangle. 'Hear him come the four cats inthe wheel-barrow--four distinct cats, sir, I pledge you my honour. Nowyou know that's infernal clever! Damme, you can't help liking a man,when you see these traits about him. He's only one fault--that littlefailing I mentioned to you, you know.'

As Mr. Smangle shook his head in a confidential and sympathisingmanner at this juncture, Mr. Pickwick felt that he was expected to saysomething, so he said, 'Ah!' and looked restlessly at the door.

'Ah!' echoed Mr. Smangle, with a long-drawn sigh. 'He's delightfulcompany, that man is, sir. I don't know better company anywhere; but hehas that one drawback. If the ghost of his grandfather, Sir, was to risebefore him this minute, he'd ask him for the loan of his acceptance onan eightpenny stamp.' 'Dear me!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

'Yes,' added Mr. Smangle; 'and if he'd the power of raising him again,he would, in two months and three days from this time, to renew thebill!'

'Those are very remarkable traits,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'but I'm afraidthat while we are talking here, my friends may be in a state of greatperplexity at not finding me.'

'I'll show 'em the way,' said Smangle, making for the door. 'Good-day. Iwon't disturb you while they're here, you know. By the bye--'

As Smangle pronounced the last three words, he stopped suddenly,reclosed the door which he had opened, and, walking softly back to Mr.Pickwick, stepped close up to him on tiptoe, and said, in a very softwhisper--

'You couldn't make it convenient to lend me half-a-crown till the latterend of next week, could you?'

Mr. Pickwick could scarcely forbear smiling, but managing to preservehis gravity, he drew forth the coin, and placed it in Mr. Smangle'spalm; upon which, that gentleman, with many nods and winks, implyingprofound mystery, disappeared in quest of the three strangers, with whomhe presently returned; and having coughed thrice, and nodded as manytimes, as an assurance to Mr. Pickwick that he would not forget to pay,he shook hands all round, in an engaging manner, and at length tookhimself off.

'My dear friends,' said Mr. Pickwick, shaking hands alternately with Mr.Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, who were the three visitors inquestion, 'I am delighted to see you.'

The triumvirate were much affected. Mr. Tupman shook his headdeploringly, Mr. Snodgrass drew forth his handkerchief, with undisguisedemotion; and Mr. Winkle retired to the window, and sniffed aloud.

'Mornin', gen'l'm'n,' said Sam, entering at the moment with the shoesand gaiters. 'Avay vith melincholly, as the little boy said ven hisschoolmissus died. Velcome to the college, gen'l'm'n.'

'This foolish fellow,' said Mr. Pickwick, tapping Sam on thehead as he knelt down to button up his master's gaiters--'this foolishfellow has got himself arrested, in order to be near me.'

'What!' exclaimed the three friends.

'Yes, gen'l'm'n,' said Sam, 'I'm a--stand steady, sir, if youplease--I'm a prisoner, gen'l'm'n. Con-fined, as the lady said.'

'A prisoner!' exclaimed Mr. Winkle, with unaccountable vehemence.

'Hollo, sir!' responded Sam, looking up. 'Wot's the matter, Sir?'

'I had hoped, Sam, that--Nothing, nothing,' said Mr. Winkleprecipitately.

There was something so very abrupt and unsettled in Mr. Winkle'smanner, that Mr. Pickwick involuntarily looked at his two friends for anexplanation.

'We don't know,' said Mr. Tupman, answering this mute appeal aloud. 'Hehas been much excited for two days past, and his whole demeanour veryunlike what it usually is. We feared there must be something the matter,but he resolutely denies it.'

'No, no,' said Mr. Winkle, colouring beneath Mr. Pickwick's gaze; 'thereis really nothing. I assure you there is nothing, my dear sir. Itwill be necessary for me to leave town, for a short time, on privatebusiness, and I had hoped to have prevailed upon you to allow Sam toaccompany me.'

Mr. Pickwick looked more astonished than before.

'I think,' faltered Mr. Winkle, 'that Sam would have had no objection todo so; but, of course, his being a prisoner here, renders it impossible.So I must go alone.'

As Mr. Winkle said these words, Mr. Pickwick felt, with someastonishment, that Sam's fingers were trembling at the gaiters, as ifhe were rather surprised or startled. Sam looked up at Mr. Winkle, too,when he had finished speaking; and though the glance they exchanged wasinstantaneous, they seemed to understand each other.

'Do you know anything of this, Sam?' said Mr. Pickwick sharply.

'No, I don't, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, beginning to button withextraordinary assiduity.

'Are you sure, Sam?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Wy, sir,' responded Mr. Weller; 'I'm sure so far, that I've never heerdanythin' on the subject afore this moment. If I makes any guess aboutit,' added Sam, looking at Mr. Winkle, 'I haven't got any right to saywhat 'It is, fear it should be a wrong 'un.'

'I have no right to make any further inquiry into the private affairs ofa friend, however intimate a friend,' said Mr. Pickwick, after a shortsilence; 'at present let me merely say, that I do not understand this atall. There. We have had quite enough of the subject.'

Thus expressing himself, Mr. Pickwick led the conversation to differenttopics, and Mr. Winkle gradually appeared more at ease, though stillvery far from being completely so. They had all so much to converseabout, that the morning very quickly passed away; and when, at threeo'clock, Mr. Weller produced upon the little dining-table, a roast legof mutton and an enormous meat-pie, with sundry dishes of vegetables,and pots of porter, which stood upon the chairs or the sofa bedstead,or where they could, everybody felt disposed to do justice to the meal,notwithstanding that the meat had been purchased, and dressed, and thepie made, and baked, at the prison cookery hard by.

To these succeeded a bottle or two of very good wine, for which amessenger was despatched by Mr. Pickwick to the Horn Coffee-house, inDoctors' Commons. The bottle or two, indeed, might be more properlydescribed as a bottle or six, for by the time it was drunk, and teaover, the bell began to ring for strangers to withdraw.

But, if Mr. Winkle's behaviour had been unaccountable in the morning, itbecame perfectly unearthly and solemn when, under the influence of hisfeelings, and his share of the bottle or six, he prepared to take leaveof his friend. He lingered behind, until Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrasshad disappeared, and then fervently clenched Mr. Pickwick's hand, withan expression of face in which deep and mighty resolve was fearfullyblended with the very concentrated essence of gloom.

'Good-night, my dear Sir!' said Mr. Winkle between his set teeth.

'Bless you, my dear fellow!' replied the warm-hearted Mr. Pickwick, ashe returned the pressure of his young friend's hand.

'Now then!' cried Mr. Tupman from the gallery.

'Yes, yes, directly,' replied Mr. Winkle. 'Good-night!'

'Good-night,' said Mr. Pickwick.

There was another good-night, and another, and half a dozen more afterthat, and still Mr. Winkle had fast hold of his friend's hand, and waslooking into his face with the same strange expression.

'Is anything the matter?' said Mr. Pickwick at last, when his arm wasquite sore with shaking. 'Nothing,' said Mr. Winkle.

'Well then, good-night,' said Mr. Pickwick, attempting to disengage hishand.

'My friend, my benefactor, my honoured companion,' murmured Mr. Winkle,catching at his wrist. 'Do not judge me harshly; do not, when you hearthat, driven to extremity by hopeless obstacles, I--'

'Now then,' said Mr. Tupman, reappearing at the door. 'Are you coming,or are we to be locked in?'

'Yes, yes, I am ready,' replied Mr. Winkle. And with a violent effort hetore himself away.

As Mr. Pickwick was gazing down the passage after them in silentastonishment, Sam Weller appeared at the stair-head, and whispered forone moment in Mr. Winkle's ear.

'Oh, certainly, depend upon me,' said that gentleman aloud.

'Thank'ee, sir. You won't forget, sir?' said Sam. 'Of course not,'replied Mr. Winkle.

'Wish you luck, Sir,' said Sam, touching his hat. 'I should very muchliked to ha' joined you, Sir; but the gov'nor, o' course, is paramount.'

'It is very much to your credit that you remain here,' said Mr. Winkle.With these words they disappeared down the stairs.

'Very extraordinary,' said Mr. Pickwick, going back into his room, andseating himself at the table in a musing attitude. 'What can that youngman be going to do?'

He had sat ruminating about the matter for some time, when the voice ofRoker, the turnkey, demanded whether he might come in.

'By all means,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'I've brought you a softer pillow, Sir,' said Mr. Roker, 'instead of thetemporary one you had last night.'

'Thank you,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Will you take a glass of wine?'

'You're wery good, Sir,' replied Mr. Roker, accepting the profferedglass. 'Yours, sir.'

'Thank you,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'I'm sorry to say that your landlord's wery bad to-night, Sir,' saidRoker, setting down the glass, and inspecting the lining of his hatpreparatory to putting it on again.

'What! The Chancery prisoner!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

'He won't be a Chancery prisoner wery long, Sir,' replied Roker, turninghis hat round, so as to get the maker's name right side upwards, as helooked into it.

'You make my blood run cold,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'What do you mean?'

'He's been consumptive for a long time past,' said Mr. Roker, 'and he'staken wery bad in the breath to-night. The doctor said, six months ago,that nothing but change of air could save him.'

'Great Heaven!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick; 'has this man been slowlymurdered by the law for six months?'

'I don't know about that,' replied Roker, weighing the hat by the brimin both hands. 'I suppose he'd have been took the same, wherever he was.He went into the infirmary, this morning; the doctor says his strengthis to be kept up as much as possible; and the warden's sent him wineand broth and that, from his own house. It's not the warden's fault, youknow, sir.'

'Of course not,' replied Mr. Pickwick hastily.

'I'm afraid, however,' said Roker, shaking his head, 'that it's all upwith him. I offered Neddy two six-penn'orths to one upon it just now,but he wouldn't take it, and quite right. Thank'ee, Sir. Good-night,sir.'

'Stay,' said Mr. Pickwick earnestly. 'Where is this infirmary?'

'Just over where you slept, sir,' replied Roker. 'I'll show you, if youlike to come.' Mr. Pickwick snatched up his hat without speaking, andfollowed at once.

The turnkey led the way in silence; and gently raising the latch ofthe room door, motioned Mr. Pickwick to enter. It was a large, bare,desolate room, with a number of stump bedsteads made of iron, on oneof which lay stretched the shadow of a man--wan, pale, and ghastly. Hisbreathing was hard and thick, and he moaned painfully as it came andwent. At the bedside sat a short old man in a cobbler's apron, who, bythe aid of a pair of horn spectacles, was reading from the Bible aloud.It was the fortunate legatee.

The sick man laid his hand upon his attendant's arm, and motioned him tostop. He closed the book, and laid it on the bed.

'Open the window,' said the sick man.

He did so. The noise of carriages and carts, the rattle of wheels,the cries of men and boys, all the busy sounds of a mighty multitudeinstinct with life and occupation, blended into one deep murmur, floatedinto the room. Above the hoarse loud hum, arose, from time to time, aboisterous laugh; or a scrap of some jingling song, shouted forth, byone of the giddy crowd, would strike upon the ear, for an instant, andthen be lost amidst the roar of voices and the tramp of footsteps; thebreaking of the billows of the restless sea of life, that rolled heavilyon, without. These are melancholy sounds to a quiet listener at anytime; but how melancholy to the watcher by the bed of death!

'There is no air here,' said the man faintly. 'The place pollutes it. Itwas fresh round about, when I walked there, years ago; but it grows hotand heavy in passing these walls. I cannot breathe it.'

'We have breathed it together, for a long time,' said the old man.'Come, come.'

There was a short silence, during which the two spectators approachedthe bed. The sick man drew a hand of his old fellow-prisoner towardshim, and pressing it affectionately between both his own, retained it inhis grasp.

'I hope,' he gasped after a while, so faintly that they bent their earsclose over the bed to catch the half-formed sounds his pale lips gavevent to--'I hope my merciful Judge will bear in mind my heavy punishmenton earth. Twenty years, my friend, twenty years in this hideous grave!My heart broke when my child died, and I could not even kiss him in hislittle coffin. My loneliness since then, in all this noise and riot,has been very dreadful. May God forgive me! He has seen my solitary,lingering death.'

He folded his hands, and murmuring something more they could not hear,fell into a sleep--only a sleep at first, for they saw him smile.

They whispered together for a little time, and the turnkey, stoopingover the pillow, drew hastily back. 'He has got his discharge, by G--!'said the man.

He had. But he had grown so like death in life, that they knew not whenhe died.