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 agin it? Live down
there! Yes, and a wery 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 a-going to sleep to-night 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 gravelled area
bounded by a high brick wall, with iron CHEVAUX-DE-FRISE 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 sail, and other artistical effects
achieved in bygone times by some imprisoned draughtsman 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 d