usty 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 steeplechase 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 grand-daughter--was hanging about him, endeavouring, 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--too true an
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 some one stumbling
hastily into the room, roused him. Turning his eyes towards the door,
they encountered the new-comer; and in him, through his rags and dirt,
he recognised the familiar features of Mr. Job Trotter.

'Mr. Pickwick!' exclaimed Job aloud.

'Eh?' 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, involuntary 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?'

'Certa