changed with suffering, and pinched with famine - there sat Mr Alfred

Jingle; his head resting on his hands, his eyes fixed upon the fire, and

his whole appearance denoting misery and dejection!

Near him, leaning listlessly against the wall, stood a strong- built

countryman, flicking with a worn-out hunting-whip the top-boot that

adorned his right foot; his left being thrust into an old slipper. Horses,

dogs, and drink had brought him there, pell-mell. There was a rusty

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.

The Pickwick Papers