''Cause I was always used to a four-poster afore I came here, and I

find the legs of the table answer just as well,' replied the cobbler.

'You're a character, sir,' said Sam.

'I haven't got anything of the kind belonging to me,' rejoined the

cobbler, shaking his head; 'and if you want to meet with a good one,

I'm afraid you'll find some difficulty in suiting yourself at this register

office.'

The above short dialogue took place as Mr Weller lay extended on his

mattress at one end of the room, and the cobbler on his, at the other;

the apartment being illumined by the light of a rush-candle, and the

cobbler's pipe, which was glowing below the table, like a red-hot coal.

The conversation, brief as it was, predisposed Mr Weller strongly in

his landlord's favour; and, raising himself on his elbow, he took a

more lengthened survey of his appearance than he had yet had either

time or inclination to make.

He was a sallow man - all cobblers are; and had a strong bristly beard

all cobblers have. His face was a queer, good- tempered, crooked-

featured piece of workmanship, ornamented with a couple of eyes that

must have worn a very joyous expression at one time, for they

sparkled yet. The man was sixty, by years, and Heaven knows how old

by imprisonment, so that his having any look approaching to mirth or

contentment, was singular enough. He was a little man, and, being

half doubled up as he lay in bed, looked about as long as he ought to

have been without his legs. He had a great red pipe in his mouth, and

was smoking, and staring at the rush-light, in a state of enviable

placidity.

Have you been here long?' inquired Sam, breaking the silence which

had lasted for some time.

Twelve year,' replied the cobbler, biting the end of his pipe as he

spoke.

Contempt?' inquired Sam. The cobbler nodded.

Well, then,' said Sam, with some sternness, 'wot do you persevere in

bein' obstinit for, vastin' your precious life away, in this here

magnified pound? Wy don't you give in, and tell the Chancellorship

that you're wery sorry for makin' his court contemptible, and you

won't do so no more?'

The cobbler put his pipe in the corner of his mouth, while he smiled,

and then brought it back to its old place again; but said nothing.

The Pickwick Papers