Wy, that's just the wery point as nobody never know'd,' replied Sam.

But what did he do?'

Wy, he did wot many men as has been much better know'd has done

in their time, Sir,' replied Sam, 'he run a match agin the constable,

and vun it.'

'In other words, I suppose,' said Mr Pickwick, 'he got into debt.'

Just that, Sir,' replied Sam, 'and in course o' time he come here in

consekens. It warn't much - execution for nine pound nothin',

multiplied by five for costs; but hows'ever here he stopped for

seventeen year. If he got any wrinkles in his face, they were stopped

up vith the dirt, for both the dirty face and the brown coat wos just

the same at the end o' that time as they wos at the beginnin'. He wos

a wery peaceful, inoffendin' little creetur, and wos alvays a-bustlin'

about for somebody, or playin' rackets and never vinnin'; till at last

the turnkeys they got quite fond on him, and he wos in the lodge ev'ry

night, a-chattering vith 'em, and tellin' stories, and all that 'ere. Vun

night he wos in there as usual, along vith a wery old friend of his, as

wos on the lock, ven he says all of a sudden, ‘I ain't seen the market

outside, Bill,’ he says (Fleet Market wos there at that time) - ’I ain't

seen the market outside, Bill,’ he says, ‘for seventeen year.’ ‘I know

you ain't,’ says the turnkey, smoking his pipe. ‘I should like to see it

for a minit, Bill,’ he says. ‘Wery probable,’ says the turnkey, smoking

his pipe wery fierce, and making believe he warn't up to wot the little

man wanted. ‘Bill,’ says the little man, more abrupt than afore, ‘I've

got the fancy in my head. Let me see the public streets once more

afore I die; and if I ain't struck with apoplexy, I'll be back in five minits

by the clock.’ ‘And wot 'ud become o' me if you WOS struck with

apoplexy?’ said the turnkey. ‘Wy,’ says the little creetur, ‘whoever

found me, 'ud bring me home, for I've got my card in my pocket, Bill,’

he says, ‘No. 20, Coffee-room Flight’: and that wos true, sure enough,

for wen he wanted to make the acquaintance of any new-comer, he

used to pull out a little limp card vith them words on it and nothin'

else; in consideration of vich, he vos alvays called Number Tventy. The

turnkey takes a fixed look at him, and at last he says in a solemn

manner, ‘Tventy,’ he says, ‘I'll trust you; you Won't get your old friend

into trouble.’ ‘No, my boy; I hope I've somethin' better behind here,’

says the little man; and as he said it he hit his little vesket wery hard,

and then a tear started out o' each eye, which wos wery extraordinary,

for it wos supposed as water never touched his face. He shook the

turnkey by the hand; out he vent - '

'And never came back again,' said Mr Pickwick.

The Pickwick Papers