'Well?' replied the gentleman.

'I have come here in consequence of receiving this bit ofpaper,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick.

'Hand it over,' said the gentleman.

Mr. Pickwick complied.

'I think Roker might have chummed you somewhere else,' saidMr. Simpson (for it was the leg), after a very discontented sort ofa 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, andpronounced some word aloud, several times. What the word was,Mr. Pickwick could not distinguish; but he rather inferred thatit must be some nickname which distinguished Mr. Martin, fromthe fact of a great number of gentlemen on the ground below,immediately proceeding to cry 'Butcher!' in imitation of the tonein which that useful class of society are wont, diurnally, to maketheir presence known at area railings.

Subsequent occurrences confirmed the accuracy of Mr. Pickwick'simpression; for, in a few seconds, a gentleman, prematurelybroad for his years, clothed in a professional blue jean frock andtop-boots with circular toes, entered the room nearly out ofbreath, closely followed by another gentleman in very shabbyblack, and a sealskin cap. The latter gentleman, who fastened hiscoat all the way up to his chin by means of a pin and a buttonalternately, had a very coarse red face, and looked like a drunkenchaplain; which, indeed, he was.

These two gentlemen having by turns perused Mr. Pickwick'sbillet, the one expressed his opinion that it was 'a rig,' and theother his conviction that it was 'a go.' Having recorded theirfeelings 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 beds so snug,' saidthe chaplain, looking at three dirty mattresses, each rolled up ina blanket; which occupied one corner of the room during the day,and formed a kind of slab, on which were placed an old crackedbasin, ewer, and soap-dish, of common yellow earthenware, witha blue flower--'very aggravating.'

Mr. Martin expressed the same opinion in rather strongerterms; Mr. Simpson, after having let a variety of expletiveadjectives loose upon society without any substantive to accompanythem, tucked up his sleeves, and began to wash the greensfor dinner.

While this was going on, Mr. Pickwick had been eyeing theroom, which was filthily dirty, and smelt intolerably close. Therewas no vestige of either carpet, curtain, or blind. There was noteven a closet in it. Unquestionably there were but few things toput away, if there had been one; but, however few in number, orsmall in individual amount, still, remnants of loaves and piecesof cheese, and damp towels, and scrags of meat, and articles ofwearing apparel, and mutilated crockery, and bellows withoutnozzles, and toasting-forks without prongs, do present somewhatof an uncomfortable appearance when they are scattered aboutthe floor of a small apartment, which is the common sitting andsleeping 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. 'Theregular chummage is two-and-six. Will you take three bob?'

'And a bender,' suggested the clerical gentleman.

'Well, I don't mind that; it's only twopence a piece more,' saidMr. Martin. 'What do you say, now? We'll pay you out forthree-and-sixpence 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. CanI live anywhere else? I thought I could not.'

At this inquiry Mr. Martin looked, with a countenance ofexcessive surprise, at his two friends, and then each gentlemanpointed with his right thumb over his left shoulder. This actionimperfectly described in words by the very feeble term of 'overthe left,' when performed by any number of ladies or gentlemenwho are accustomed to act in unison, has a very graceful and airyeffect; its expression is one of light and playful sarcasm.

'CAN you!' repeated Mr. Martin, with a smile of pity.

'Well, if I knew as little of life as that, I'd eat my hat andswallow the buckle whole,' 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 whatmoney was out of it; that it would instantly procure him almostanything he desired; and that, supposing he had it, and had noobjection to spend it, if he only signified his wish to have a roomto himself, he might take possession of one, furnished and fittedto boot, in half an hour's time.

With this the parties separated, very much to their commonsatisfaction; Mr. Pickwick once more retracing his steps to thelodge, 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 knowed it!' said Mr. Roker, with a chuckle, when Mr.Pickwick stated the object with which he had returned. 'Didn't Isay so, Neddy?'

The philosophical owner of the universal penknife growled anaffirmative.

'I knowed you'd want a room for yourself, bless you!' saidMr. Roker. 'Let me see. You'll want some furniture. You'll hirethat of me, I suppose? That's the reg'lar thing.'

'With great pleasure,' replied Mr. Pickwick.

'There's a capital room up in the coffee-room flight, thatbelongs to a Chancery prisoner,' said Mr. Roker. 'It'll stand youin 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 withgreat alacrity; 'the matter's settled in five minutes. Lord! whydidn'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 losthis friends, fortune, home, and happiness, and to have acquiredthe right of having a room to himself. As he laboured, however,under the inconvenience of often wanting a morsel of bread, heeagerly listened to Mr. Pickwick's proposal to rent the apartment,and readily covenanted and agreed to yield him up the sole andundisturbed possession thereof, in consideration of the weeklypayment of twenty shillings; from which fund he furthermorecontracted to pay out any person or persons that might bechummed upon it.

As they struck the bargain, Mr. Pickwick surveyed him with apainful interest. He was a tall, gaunt, cadaverous man, in an oldgreatcoat and slippers, with sunken cheeks, and a restless, eagereye. His lips were bloodless, and his bones sharp and thin. Godhelp him! the iron teeth of confinement and privation had beenslowly 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 thetottering table.

The man gathered up the money with a trembling hand, andreplied that he didn't know yet; he must go and see where hecould move his bed to.

'I am afraid, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand gently andcompassionately on his arm--'I am afraid you will have to live insome noisy, crowded place. Now, pray, consider this room yourown when you want quiet, or when any of your friends come tosee you.'

'Friends!' interposed the man, in a voice which rattled in histhroat. 'if I lay dead at the bottom of the deepest mine in theworld; tight screwed down and soldered in my coffin; rotting inthe dark and filthy ditch that drags its slime along, beneath thefoundations of this prison; I could not be more forgotten orunheeded than I am here. I am a dead man; dead to society,without the pity they bestow on those whose souls have passed tojudgment. Friends to see me! My God! I have sunk, from theprime of life into old age, in this place, and there is not one toraise his hand above my bed when I lie dead upon it, and say,"It is a blessing he is gone!"'

The excitement, which had cast an unwonted light over theman's face, while he spoke, subsided as he concluded; andpressing his withered hands together in a hasty and disorderedmanner, he shuffled from the room.

'Rides rather rusty,' said Mr. Roker, with a smile. 'Ah! they'relike the elephants. They feel it now and then, and it makes 'em wild!'

Having made this deeply-sympathising remark, Mr. Rokerentered upon his arrangements with such expedition, that in ashort time the room was furnished with a carpet, six chairs, atable, a sofa bedstead, a tea-kettle, and various small articles, onhire, at the very reasonable rate of seven-and-twenty shillings andsixpence per week.

'Now, is there anything more we can do for you?' inquiredMr. Roker, looking round with great satisfaction, and gailychinking the first week's hire in his closed fist.

'Why, yes,' said Mr. Pickwick, who had been musing deeplyfor 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, whohas got a friend on the poor side, that's glad to do anything ofthat sort. He's been running odd jobs, and that, for the last twomonths. Shall I send him?'

'If you please,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick. 'Stay; no. The poorside, 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, thatin which the most miserable and abject class of debtors areconfined. A prisoner having declared upon the poor side, paysneither rent nor chummage. His fees, upon entering and leavingthe jail, are reduced in amount, and he becomes entitled to a shareof some small quantities of food: to provide which, a fewcharitable persons have, from time to time, left trifling legacies intheir wills. Most of our readers will remember, that, until within avery few years past, there was a kind of iron cage in the wall ofthe Fleet Prison, within which was posted some man of hungrylooks, who, from time to time, rattled a money-box, andexclaimed in a mournful voice, 'Pray, remember the poor debtors;pray remember the poor debtors.' The receipts of this box, whenthere were any, were divided among the poor prisoners; and themen on the poor side relieved each other in this degrading office.

Although this custom has been abolished, and the cage is nowboarded up, the miserable and destitute condition of theseunhappy persons remains the same. We no longer suffer them toappeal at the prison gates to the charity and compassion of thepassersby; but we still leave unblotted the leaves of our statutebook, for the reverence and admiration of succeeding ages, thejust and wholesome law which declares that the sturdy felon shallbe fed and clothed, and that the penniless debtor shall be left todie of starvation and nakedness. This is no fiction. Not a weekpasses over our head, but, in every one of our prisons for debt,some of these men must inevitably expire in the slow agonies ofwant, if they were not relieved by their fellow-prisoners.

Turning these things in his mind, as he mounted the narrowstaircase at the foot of which Roker had left him, Mr. Pickwickgradually worked himself to the boiling-over point; and soexcited was he with his reflections on this subject, that he hadburst into the room to which he had been directed, before he hadany distinct recollection, either of the place in which he was, or ofthe 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 wasbrooding 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 commoncalico 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 eyesfixed upon the fire, and his whole appearance denoting miseryand dejection!

Near him, leaning listlessly against the wall, stood a strong-built countryman, flicking with a worn-out hunting-whip thetop-boot that adorned his right foot; his left being thrust into anold slipper. Horses, dogs, and drink had brought him there,pell-mell. There was a rusty spur on the solitary boot, which heoccasionally jerked into the empty air, at the same time givingthe boot a smart blow, and muttering some of the sounds bywhich a sportsman encourages his horse. He was riding, inimagination, some desperate steeplechase at that moment. Poorwretch! He never rode a match on the swiftest animal in his costlystud, with half the speed at which he had torn along the coursethat ended in the Fleet.

On the opposite side of the room an old man was seated on asmall wooden box, with his eyes riveted on the floor, and his facesettled into an expression of the deepest and most hopelessdespair. A young girl--his little grand-daughter--was hangingabout him, endeavouring, with a thousand childish devices, toengage his attention; but the old man neither saw nor heard her.The voice that had been music to him, and the eyes that had beenlight, fell coldly on his senses. His limbs were shaking withdisease, and the palsy had fastened on his mind.

There were two or three other men in the room, congregated ina little knot, and noiselessly talking among themselves. There wasa lean and haggard woman, too--a prisoner's wife--who waswatering, with great solicitude, the wretched stump of a dried-up,withered plant, which, it was plain to see, could never send fortha green leaf again--too true an emblem, perhaps, of the officeshe had come there to discharge.

Title: The Pickwick Papers
Author: Charles Dickens
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