Mr Pickwick eyed the old man with great curiosity, and the remainder

of the company smiled, and looked on in silence.

Talk of your German universities,' said the little old man. 'Pooh, pooh!

there's romance enough at home without going half a mile for it; only

people never think of it.'

I never thought of the romance of this particular subject before,

certainly,' said Mr Pickwick, laughing. 'To be sure you didn't,' said the

little old man; 'of course not. As a friend of mine used to say to me,

‘

What is there in chambers in particular?’ ‘Queer old places,’ said I.

Not at all,’ said he. ‘Lonely,’ said I. ‘Not a bit of it,’ said he. He died

one morning of apoplexy, as he was going to open his outer door. Fell

with his head in his own letter-box, and there he lay for eighteen

months. Everybody thought he'd gone out of town.'

'And how was he found out at last?' inquired Mr Pickwick.

'The benchers determined to have his door broken open, as he hadn't

paid any rent for two years. So they did. Forced the lock; and a very

dusty skeleton in a blue coat, black knee-shorts, and silks, fell

forward in the arms of the porter who opened the door. Queer, that.

Rather, perhaps; rather, eh?'The little old man put his head more on

one side, and rubbed his hands with unspeakable glee.

'I know another case,' said the little old man, when his chuckles had

in some degree subsided. 'It occurred in Clifford's Inn. Tenant of a top

set - bad character - shut himself up in his bedroom closet, and took

a dose of arsenic. The steward thought he had run away: opened the

door, and put a bill up. Another man came, took the chambers,

furnished them, and went to live there. Somehow or other he couldn't

sleep - always restless and uncomfortable. ‘Odd,’ says he. ‘I'll make

the other room my bedchamber, and this my sitting-room.’ He made

the change, and slept very well at night, but suddenly found that,

somehow, he couldn't read in the evening: he got nervous and

uncomfortable, and used to be always snuffing his candles and

staring about him. ‘I can't make this out,’ said he, when he came

home from the play one night, and was drinking a glass of cold grog,

with his back to the wall, in order that he mightn't be able to fancy

there was any one behind him - ’I can't make it out,’ said he; and just

then his eyes rested on the little closet that had been always locked

up, and a shudder ran through his whole frame from top to toe. ‘I

have felt this strange feeling before,’ said he, ‘I cannot help thinking

there's something wrong about that closet.’ He made a strong effort,

plucked up his courage, shivered the lock with a blow or two of the

poker, opened the door, and there, sure enough, standing bolt upright

in the corner, was the last tenant, with a little bottle clasped firmly in

his hand, and his face - well!' As the little old man concluded, he

The Pickwick Papers