Page:The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club.djvu/570

476 476 POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF

" Thank you/' said Mr. Pickwick. '' Will you take a glass of wiiie ?

" You're wery good, Sir," replied Mr. Roker, accepting the proffered glass. " Yours, Sir."

" Thank you," said Mr. Pickwick.

" I'm sorry to say that your landlord's wery bad to-night, Sir/' said Roker, setting down the glass, and inspecting the lining of his hat pre- paratory to putting it on again.

" What ! The Chancery prisoner ! " exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

" He won't be a Chancery prisoner wery long Sir," replied Roker, turning his hat round so as to get the maker's name right side upwards as he looked into it.

" You make my blood run cold," said Mr. Pickwick. " What do you mean } "

" He's been consumptive for a long time past," said Mr. Roker, '^ and he's taken wery bad in the breath to-night. The doctor said six months ago that nothing but change of air could save him."

" Great Heaven ! " exclaimed Mr. Pickwick ; '' has this man been slowly murdered by the law for six months ! "

" I don't know about that, Sir," replied Roker, weighing the hat by the brims in both hands. " I suppose he'd have been took the same wherever he was. He went into the infirmary this morning; the doctor says his strength is to be kept up as much as possible, and the warden's sent him wine and broth and that, from his own house. It's not the warden's fault, you know, Sir."

" Of course not," replied Mr. Pickwick hastily.

" I'm afraid however," said Roker shaking his head, " that it's all up with hint; I offered Neddy two sixpenn'orths to one upon it just now, but he wouldn't take it, and quite'right. Thankee, Sir. Good night. Sir."

'^ Stay," said Mr. Pickwick earnestly. " Where is this infirmary ? "

" Just over where you slept. Sir," replied Roker. " I'll show you if you like to come." Mr. Pickwick snatched up his hat without speaking, and followed at once.

The turnkey led the way in silence, and gently raising the latch of the room-door, motioned Mr. Pickwick to enter. It was a large, bare, desolate room, with a number of stump bedsteads made of iron, on one of which lay stretched the shadow of a man : wan, pale, and ghastly. His breathing was hard and thick, and he moaned painfully as it came and went. At the bedside sat a short old man in a cobbler's apron, who by the aid of a pair of horn spectacles, was reading from the bible aloud. It was the fortunate legatee.

The sick man laid his hand upon his attendant's arm, and motioned him to stop. He closed the book, and laid it on the bed.

" Open the window," said the sick man.

He did so. The noise of carriages and carts, the rattle of wheels, the cries of men and boys ; all the busy sounds of a mighty multitude instinct with life and occupation, blended into one deep murmur, floated into the room. Above the hoarse loud hum arose from time to time a