prompt:
Chapter: The remainder of the period which Mr. Pickwick had assigned as the
duration of the stay at Bath passed over without the occurrence of
anything material. Trinity term commenced. On the expiration of its
first week, Mr. Pickwick and his friends returned to London; and the
former gentleman, attended of course by Sam, straightway repaired to his
old quarters at the George and Vulture.

On the third morning after their arrival, just as all the clocks in the
city were striking nine individually, and somewhere about nine hundred
and ninety-nine collectively, Sam was taking the air in George Yard,
when a queer sort of fresh-painted vehicle drove up, out of which there
jumped with great agility, throwing the reins to a stout man who sat
beside him, a queer sort of gentleman, who seemed made for the vehicle,
and the vehicle for him.

The vehicle was not exactly a gig, neither was it a stanhope. It was not
what is currently denominated a dog-cart, neither was it a taxed cart,
nor a chaise-cart, nor a guillotined cabriolet; and yet it had something
of the character of each and every of these machines. It was painted a
bright yellow, with the shafts and wheels picked out in black; and the
driver sat in the orthodox sporting style, on cushions piled about two
feet above the rail. The horse was a bay, a well-looking animal enough;
but with something of a flash and dog-fighting air about him,
nevertheless, which accorded both with the vehicle and his master.

The master himself was a man of about forty, with black hair, and
carefully combed whiskers. He was dressed in a particularly gorgeous
manner, with plenty of articles of jewellery about him--all about three
sizes larger than those which are usually worn by gentlemen--and a rough
greatcoat to crown the whole. Into one pocket of this greatcoat, he
thrust his left hand the moment he dismounted, while from the other he
drew forth, with his right, a very bright and glaring silk handkerchief,
with which he whisked a speck or two of dust from his boots, and then,
crumpling it in his hand, swaggered up the court.

It had not escaped Sam's attention that, when this person dismounted, a
shabby-looking man in a brown greatcoat shorn of divers buttons, who had
been previously slinking about, on the opposite side of the way, crossed
over, and remained stationary close by. Having something more than a
suspicion of the object of the gentleman's visit, Sam preceded him to
the George and Vulture, and, turning sharp round, planted himself in the
centre of the doorway.

'Now, my fine fellow!' said the man in the rough coat, in an imperious
tone, attempting at the same time to push his way past.

'Now, Sir, wot's the matter?' replied Sam, returning the push with
compound interest.

'Come, none of this, my man; this won't do with me,' said the owner of
the rough coat, raising his voice, and turning white. 'Here, Smouch!'

'Well, wot's amiss here?' growled the man in the brown coat, who had
been gradually sneaking up the court during this short dialogue.

'Only some insolence of this young man's,' said the principal, giving
Sam another push.

'Come, none o' this gammon,' growled Smouch, giving him another, and a
harder one.

This last push had the effect which it was intended by the experienced
Mr. Smouch to produce; for while Sam, anxious to return the compliment,
was grinding that gentleman's body against the door-post, the principal
crept past, and made his way to the bar, whither Sam, after bandying a
few epithetical remarks with Mr. Smouch, followed at once.

'Good-morning, my dear,' said the principal, addressing the young lady
at the bar, with Botany Bay ease, and New South Wales gentility; 'which
is Mr. Pickwick's room, my dear?'

'Show him up,' said the barmaid to a waiter, without deigning another
look at the exquisite, in reply to his inquiry.

The waiter led the way upstairs as he was desired, and the man in the
rough coat followed, with Sam behind him, who, in his progress up the
staircase, indulged in sundry gestures indicative of supreme contempt
and defiance, to the unspeakable gratification of the servants and other
lookers-on. Mr. Smouch, who was troubled with a hoarse cough, remained
below, and expectorated in the passage.

Mr. Pickwick was fast asleep in bed, when his early visitor, followed by
Sam, entered the room. The noise they made, in so doing, awoke him.

'Shaving-water, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, from within the curtains.

'Shave you directly, Mr. Pickwick,' said the visitor, drawing one of
them back from the bed's head. 'I've got an execution against you, at
the suit of Bardell.--Here's the warrant.--Common Pleas.--Here's my
card. I suppose you'll come over to my house.' Giving Mr. Pickwick a
friendly tap on the shoulder, the sheriff's officer (for such he was)
threw his card on the counterpane, and pulled a gold toothpick from his
waistcoat pocket.

'Namby's the name,' said the sheriff's deputy, as Mr. Pickwick took his
spectacles from under the pillow, and put them on, to read the card.
'Namby, Bell Alley, Coleman Street.'

At this point, Sam Weller, who had had his eyes fixed hitherto on Mr.
Namby's shining beaver, interfered.

'Are you a Quaker?' said Sam.

'I'll let you know I am, before I've done with you,' replied the
indignant officer. 'I'll teach you manners, my fine fellow, one of these
fine mornings.'

'Thank'ee,' said Sam. 'I'll do the same to you. Take your hat off.' With
this, Mr. Weller, in the most dexterous manner, knocked Mr. Namby's hat
to the other side of the room, with such violence, that he had very
nearly caused him to swallow the gold toothpick into the bargain.

'Observe this, Mr. Pickwick,' said the disconcerted officer, gasping for
breath. 'I've been assaulted in the execution of my dooty by your
servant in your chamber. I'm in bodily fear. I call you to witness
this.'

'Don't witness nothin', Sir,' interposed Sam. 'Shut your eyes up tight,
Sir. I'd pitch him out o' winder, only he couldn't fall far enough,
'cause o' the leads outside.'

'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, in an angry voice, as his attendant made
various demonstrations of hostilities, 'if you say another word, or
offer the slightest interference with this person, I discharge you that
instant.'

'But, Sir!' said Sam.

'Hold your tongue,' interposed Mr. Pickwick. 'Take that hat up again.'

But this Sam flatly and positively refused to do; and, after he had been
severely reprimanded by his master, the officer, being in a hurry,
condescended to pick it up himself, venting a great variety of threats
against Sam meanwhile, which that gentleman received with perfect
composure, merely observing that if Mr. Namby would have the goodness to
put his hat on again, he would knock it into the latter end of next
week. Mr. Namby, perhaps thinking that such a process might be
productive of inconvenience to himself, declined to offer the
temptation, and, soon after, called up Smouch. Having informed him that
the capture was made, and that he was to wait for the prisoner until he
should have finished dressing, Namby then swaggered out, and drove away.
Smouch, requesting Mr. Pickwick in a surly manner 'to be as alive as he
could, for it was a busy time,' drew up a chair by the door and sat
there, until he had finished dressing. Sam was then despatched for a
hackney-coach, and in it the triumvirate proceeded to Coleman Street. It
was fortunate the distance was short; for Mr. Smouch, besides possessing
no very enchanting conversational powers, was rendered a decidedly
unpleasant companion in a limited space, by the physical weakness to
which we have elsewhere adverted.

The coach having turned into a very narrow and dark street, stopped
before a house with iron bars to all the windows; the door-posts of
which were graced by the name and title of 'Namby, Officer to the
Sheriffs of London'; the inner gate having been opened by a gentleman
who might have passed for a neglected twin-brother of Mr. Smouch, and
who was endowed with a large key for the purpose, Mr. Pickwick was shown
into the 'coffee-room.'

This coffee-room was a front parlour, the principal features of which
were fresh sand and stale tobacco smoke. Mr. Pickwick bowed to the three
persons who were seated in it when he entered; and having despatched Sam
for Perker, withdrew into an obscure corner, and looked thence with some
curiosity upon his new companions.

One of these was a mere boy of nineteen or twenty, who, though it was
yet barely ten o'clock, was drinking gin-and-water, and smoking a cigar-
-amusements to which, judging from his inflamed countenance, he had
devoted himself pretty constantly for the last year or two of his life.
Opposite him, engaged in stirring the fire with the toe of his right
boot, was a coarse, vulgar young man of about thirty, with a sallow face
and harsh voice; evidently possessed of that knowledge of the world, and
captivating freedom of manner, which is to be acquired in public-house
parlours, and at low billiard tables. The third tenant of the apartment
was a middle-aged man in a very old suit of black, who looked pale and
haggard, and paced up and down the room incessantly; stopping, now and
then, to look with great anxiety out of the window as if he expected
somebody, and then resuming his walk.

'You'd better have the loan of my razor this morning, Mr. Ayresleigh,'
said the man who was stirring the fire, tipping the wink to his friend
the boy.

'Thank you, no, I shan't want it; I expect I shall be out, in the course
of an hour or so,' replied the other in a hurried manner. Then, walking
again up to the window, and once more returning disappointed, he sighed
deeply, and left the room; upon which the other two burst into a loud
laugh.

'Well, I never saw such a game as that,' said the gentleman who had
offered the razor, whose name appeared to be Price. 'Never!' Mr. Price
confirmed the assertion with an oath, and then laughed again, when of
course the boy (who thought his companion one of the most dashing
fellows alive) laughed also.

'You'd hardly think, would you now,' said Price, turning towards Mr.
Pickwick, 'that that chap's been here a week yesterday, and never once
shaved himself yet, because he feels so certain he's going out in half
an hour's time, thinks he may as well put it off till he gets home?'

'Poor man!' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Are his chances of getting out of his
difficulties really so great?'

'Chances be d----d,' replied Price; 'he hasn't half the ghost of one. I
wouldn't give _that _for his chance of walking about the streets this
time ten years.' With this, Mr. Price snapped his fingers
contemptuously, and rang the bell.

'Give me a sheet of paper, Crookey,' said Mr. Price to the attendant,
who in dress and general appearance looked something between a bankrupt
glazier, and a drover in a state of insolvency; 'and a glass of brandy-
and-water, Crookey, d'ye hear? I'm going to write to my father, and I
must have a stimulant, or I shan't be able to pitch it strong enough
into the old boy.' At this facetious speech, the young boy, it is almost
needless to say, was fairly convulsed.

'That's right,' said Mr. Price. 'Never say die. All fun, ain't it?'

'Prime!' said the young gentleman.

'You've got some spirit about you, you have,' said Price. 'You've seen
something of life.'

'I rather think I have!' replied the boy. He had looked at it through
the dirty panes of glass in a bar door.

Mr. Pickwick, feeling not a little disgusted with this dialogue, as well
as with the air and manner of the two beings by whom it had been carried
on, was about to inquire whether he could not be accommodated with a
private sitting-room, when two or three strangers of genteel appearance
entered, at sight of whom the boy threw his cigar into the fire, and
whispering to Mr. Price that they had come to 'make it all right' for
him, joined them at a table in the farther end of the room.

It would appear, however, that matters were not going to be made all
right quite so speedily as the young gentleman anticipated; for a very
long conversation ensued, of which Mr. Pickwick could not avoid hearing
certain angry fragments regarding dissolute conduct, and repeated
forgiveness. At last, there were very distinct allusions made by the
oldest gentleman of the party to one Whitecross Street, at which the
young gentleman, notwithstanding his primeness and his spirit, and his
knowledge of life into the bargain, reclined his head upon the table,
and howled dismally.

Very much satisfied with this sudden bringing down of the youth's
valour, and this effectual lowering of his tone, Mr. Pickwick rang the
bell, and was shown, at his own request, into a private room furnished
with a carpet, table, chairs, sideboard and sofa, and ornamented with a
looking-glass, and various old prints. Here he had the advantage of
hearing Mrs. Namby's performance on a square piano overhead, while the
breakfast was getting ready; when it came, Mr. Perker came too.

'Aha, my dear sir,' said the little man, 'nailed at last, eh? Come,
come, I'm not sorry for it either, because now you'll see the absurdity
of this conduct. I've noted down the amount of the taxed costs and
damages for which the ca-sa was issued, and we had better settle at once
and lose no time. Namby is come home by this time, I dare say. What say
you, my dear sir? Shall I draw a cheque, or will you?' The little man
rubbed his hands with affected cheerfulness as he said this, but
glancing at Mr. Pickwick's countenance, could not forbear at the same
time casting a desponding look towards Sam Weller.

'Perker,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'let me hear no more of this, I beg. I see
no advantage in staying here, so I shall go to prison to-night.'

'You can't go to Whitecross Street, my dear Sir,' said Perker.
'Impossible! There are sixty beds in a ward; and the bolt's on, sixteen
hours out of the four-and-twenty.'

'I would rather go to some other place of confinement if I can,' said
Mr. Pickwick. 'If not, I must make the best I can of that.'

'You can go to the Fleet, my dear Sir, if you're determined to go
somewhere,' said Perker.

'That'll do,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I'll go there directly I have finished
my breakfast.'

'Stop, stop, my dear Sir; not the least occasion for being in such a
violent hurry to get into a place that most other men are as eager to
get out of,' said the good-natured little attorney. 'We must have a
habeas-corpus. There'll be no judge at chambers till four o'clock this
afternoon. You must wait till then.'

'Very good,' said Mr. Pickwick, with unmoved patience. 'Then we will
have a chop here, at two. See about it, Sam, and tell them to be
punctual.'

Mr. Pickwick remaining firm, despite all the remonstrances and arguments
of Perker, the chops appeared and disappeared in due course; he was then
put into another hackney coach, and carried off to Chancery Lane, after
waiting half an hour or so for Mr. Namby, who had a select dinner-party
and could on no account be disturbed before.

There were two judges in attendance at Serjeant's Inn--one King's Bench,
and one Common Pleas--and a great deal of business appeared to be
transacting before them, if the number of lawyer's clerks who were
hurrying in and out with bundles of papers, afforded any test. When they
reached the low archway which forms the entrance to the inn, Perker was
detained a few moments parlaying with the coachman about the fare and
the change; and Mr. Pickwick, stepping to one side to be out of the way
of the stream of people that were pouring in and out, looked about him
with some curiosity.

The people that attracted his attention most, were three or four men of
shabby-genteel appearance, who touched their hats to many of the
attorneys who passed, and seemed to have some business there, the nature
of which Mr. Pickwick could not divine. They were curious-looking
fellows. One was a slim and rather lame man in rusty black, and a white
neckerchief; another was a stout, burly person, dressed in the same
apparel, with a great reddish-black cloth round his neck; a third was a
little weazen, drunken-looking body, with a pimply face. They were
loitering about, with their hands behind them, and now and then with an
anxious countenance whispered something in the ear of some of the
gentlemen with papers, as they hurried by. Mr. Pickwick remembered to
have very often observed them lounging under the archway when he had
been walking past; and his curiosity was quite excited to know to what
branch of the profession these dingy-looking loungers could possibly
belong.

He was about to propound the question to Namby, who kept close beside
him, sucking a large gold ring on his little finger, when Perker bustled
up, and observing that there was no time to lose, led the way into the
inn. As Mr. Pickwick followed, the lame man stepped up to him, and
civilly touching his hat, held out a written card, which Mr. Pickwick,
not wishing to hurt the man's feelings by refusing, courteously accepted
and deposited in his waistcoat pocket.

'Now,' said Perker, turning round before he entered one of the offices,
to see that his companions were close behind him. 'In here, my dear sir.
Hallo, what do you want?'

This last question was addressed to the lame man, who, unobserved by Mr.
Pickwick, made one of the party. In reply to it, the lame man touched
his hat again, with all imaginable politeness, and motioned towards Mr.
Pickwick.

'No, no,' said Perker, with a smile. 'We don't want you, my dear friend,
we don't want you.'

'I beg your pardon, sir,' said the lame man. 'The gentleman took my
card. I hope you will employ me, sir. The gentleman nodded to me. I'll
be judged by the gentleman himself. You nodded to me, sir?'

'Pooh, pooh, nonsense. You didn't nod to anybody, Pickwick? A mistake, a
mistake,' said Perker.

'The gentleman handed me his card,' replied Mr. Pickwick, producing it
from his waistcoat pocket. 'I accepted it, as the gentleman seemed to
wish it--in fact I had some curiosity to look at it when I should be at
leisure. I--'

The little attorney burst into a loud laugh, and returning the card to
the lame man, informing him it was all a mistake, whispered to Mr.
Pickwick as the man turned away in dudgeon, that he was only a bail.

'A what!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

'A bail,' replied Perker.

'A bail!'

Yes, my dear sir--half a dozen of 'em here. Bail you to any amount, and
only charge half a crown. Curious trade, isn't it?' said Perker,
regaling himself with a pinch of snuff.

'What! Am I to understand that these men earn a livelihood by waiting
about here, to perjure themselves before the judges of the land, at the
rate of half a crown a crime?' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, quite aghast at
the disclosure.

'Why, I don't exactly know about perjury, my dear sir,' replied the
little gentleman. 'Harsh word, my dear sir, very harsh word indeed. It's
a legal fiction, my dear sir, nothing more.' Saying which, the attorney
shrugged his shoulders, smiled, took a second pinch of snuff, and led
the way into the office of the judge's clerk.

This was a room of specially dirty appearance, with a very low ceiling
and old panelled walls; and so badly lighted, that although it was broad
day outside, great tallow candles were burning on the desks. At one end,
was a door leading to the judge's private apartment, round which were
congregated a crowd of attorneys and managing clerks, who were called
in, in the order in which their respective appointments stood upon the
file. Every time this door was opened to let a party out, the next party
made a violent rush to get in; and, as in addition to the numerous
dialogues which passed between the gentlemen who were waiting to see the
judge, a variety of personal squabbles ensued between the greater part
of those who had seen him, there was as much noise as could well be
raised in an apartment of such confined dimensions.

Nor were the conversations of these gentlemen the only sounds that broke
upon the ear. Standing on a box behind a wooden bar at another end of
the room was a clerk in spectacles who was 'taking the affidavits';
large batches of which were, from time to time, carried into the private
room by another clerk for the judge's signature. There were a large
number of attorneys' clerks to be sworn, and it being a moral
impossibility to swear them all at once, the struggles of these
gentlemen to reach the clerk in spectacles, were like those of a crowd
to get in at the pit door of a theatre when Gracious Majesty honours it
with its presence. Another functionary, from time to time, exercised his
lungs in calling over the names of those who had been sworn, for the
purpose of restoring to them their affidavits after they had been signed
by the judge, which gave rise to a few more scuffles; and all these
things going on at the same time, occasioned as much bustle as the most
active and excitable person could desire to behold. There were yet
another class of persons--those who were waiting to attend summonses
their employers had taken out, which it was optional to the attorney on
the opposite side to attend or not--and whose business it was, from time
to time, to cry out the opposite attorney's name; to make certain that
he was not in attendance without their knowledge.

For example. Leaning against the wall, close beside the seat Mr.
Pickwick had taken, was an office-lad of fourteen, with a tenor voice;
near him a common-law clerk with a bass one.

A clerk hurried in with a bundle of papers, and stared about him.

'Sniggle and Blink,' cried the tenor.

'Porkin and Snob,' growled the bass.

'Stumpy and Deacon,' said the new-comer.

Nobody answered; the next man who came in, was bailed by the whole
three; and he in his turn shouted for another firm; and then somebody
else roared in a loud voice for another; and so forth.

All this time, the man in the spectacles was hard at work, swearing the
clerks; the oath being invariably administered, without any effort at
punctuation, and usually in the following terms:--

'Take the book in your right hand this is your name and hand-writing you
swear that the contents of this your affidavit are true so help you God
a shilling you must get change I haven't got it.'

'Well, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I suppose they are getting the _Habeas-
corpus_ ready?'

'Yes,' said Sam, 'and I vish they'd bring out the have-his-carcase. It's
wery unpleasant keepin' us vaitin' here. I'd ha' got half a dozen have-
his-carcases ready, pack'd up and all, by this time.'

What sort of cumbrous and unmanageable machine, Sam Weller imagined a
habeas-corpus to be, does not appear; for Perker, at that moment, walked
up and took Mr. Pickwick away.

The usual forms having been gone through, the body of Samuel Pickwick
was soon afterwards confided to the custody of the tipstaff, to be by
him taken to the warden of the Fleet Prison, and there detained until
the amount of the damages and costs in the action of Bardell against
Pickwick was fully paid and satisfied.

'And that,' said Mr. Pickwick, laughing, 'will be a very long time. Sam,
call another hackney-coach. Perker, my dear friend, good-bye.'

'I shall go with you, and see you safe there,' said Perker.

'Indeed,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'I would rather go without any other
attendant than Sam. As soon as I get settled, I will write and let you
know, and I shall expect you immediately. Until then, good-bye.'

As Mr. Pickwick said this, he got into the coach which had by this time
arrived, followed by the tipstaff. Sam having stationed himself on the
box, it rolled away.

'A most extraordinary man that!' said Perker, as he stopped to pull on
his gloves.

'What a bankrupt he'd make, Sir,' observed Mr. Lowten, who was standing
near. 'How he would bother the commissioners! He'd set 'em at defiance
if they talked of committing him, Sir.'

The attorney did not appear very much delighted with his clerk's
professional estimate of Mr. Pickwick's character, for he walked away
without deigning any reply.

The hackney-coach jolted along Fleet Street, as hackney-coaches usually
do. The horses 'went better', the driver said, when they had anything
before them (they must have gone at a most extraordinary pace when there
was nothing), and so the vehicle kept behind a cart; when the cart
stopped, it stopped; and when the cart went on again, it did the same.
Mr. Pickwick sat opposite the tipstaff; and the tipstaff sat with his
hat between his knees, whistling a tune, and looking out of the coach
window.

Time performs wonders. By the powerful old gentleman's aid, even a
hackney-coach gets over half a mile of ground. They stopped at length,
and Mr. Pickwick alighted at the gate of the Fleet.

The tipstaff, just looking over his shoulder to see that his charge was
following close at his heels, preceded Mr. Pickwick into the prison;
turning to the left, after they had entered, they passed through an open
door into a lobby, from which a heavy gate, opposite to that by which
they had entered, and which was guarded by a stout turnkey with the key
in his hand, led at once into the interior of the prison.

Here they stopped, while the tipstaff delivered his papers; and here Mr.
Pickwick was apprised that he would remain, until he had undergone the
ceremony, known to the initiated as 'sitting for your portrait.'

'Sitting for my portrait?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Having your likeness taken, sir,' replied the stout turnkey.

'We're capital hands at likenesses here. Take 'em in no time, and always
exact. Walk in, sir, and make yourself at home.'

Mr. Pickwick complied with the invitation, and sat himself down; when
Mr. Weller, who stationed himself at the back of the chair, whispered
that the sitting was merely another term for undergoing an inspection by
the different turnkeys, in order that they might know prisoners from
visitors.

'Well, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'then I wish the artists would come.
This is rather a public place.'

'They von't be long, Sir, I des-say,' replied Sam. 'There's a Dutch
clock, sir.'

'So I see,' observed Mr. Pickwick.

'And a bird-cage, sir,' says Sam. 'Veels vithin veels, a prison in a
prison. Ain't it, Sir?'

As Mr. Weller made this philosophical remark, Mr. Pickwick was aware
that his sitting had commenced. The stout turnkey having been relieved
from the lock, sat down, and looked at him carelessly, from time to
time, while a long thin man who had relieved him, thrust his hands
beneath his coat tails, and planting himself opposite, took a good long
view of him. A third rather surly-looking gentleman, who had apparently
been disturbed at his tea, for he was disposing of the last remnant of a
crust and butter when he came in, stationed himself close to Mr.
Pickwick; and, resting his hands on his hips, inspected him narrowly;
while two others mixed with the group, and studied his features with
most intent and thoughtful faces. Mr. Pickwick winced a good deal under
the operation, and appeared to sit very uneasily in his chair; but he
made no remark to anybody while it was being performed, not even to Sam,
who reclined upon the back of the chair, reflecting, partly on the
situation of his master, and partly on the great satisfaction it would
have afforded him to make a fierce assault upon all the turnkeys there
assembled, one after the other, if it were lawful and peaceable so to
do.

At length the likeness was completed, and Mr. Pickwick was informed that
he might now proceed into the prison.

'Where am I to sleep to-night?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'Why, I don't rightly know about to-night,' replied the stout turnkey.
'You'll be chummed on somebody to-morrow, and then you'll be all snug
and comfortable. The first night's generally rather unsettled, but
you'll be set all squares to-morrow.'

After some discussion, it was discovered that one of the turnkeys had a
bed to let, which Mr. Pickwick could have for that night. He gladly
agreed to hire it.

'If you'll come with me, I'll show it you at once,' said the man. 'It
ain't a large 'un; but it's an out-and-outer to sleep in. This way,
sir.'

They passed through the inner gate, and descended a short flight of
steps. The key was turned after them; and Mr. Pickwick found himself,
for the first time in his life, within the walls of a debtors' prison.

Mr. Tom Roker, the gentleman who had accompanied Mr. Pickwick into the
prison, turned sharp round to the right when he got to the bottom of the
little flight of steps, and led the way, through an iron gate which
stood open, and up another short flight of steps, into a long narrow
gallery, dirty and low, paved with stone, and very dimly lighted by a
window at each remote end.

'This,' said the gentleman, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and
looking carelessly over his shoulder to Mr. Pickwick--'this here is the
hall flight.'

'Oh,' replied Mr. Pickwick, looking down a dark and filthy staircase,
which appeared to lead to a range of damp and gloomy stone vaults,
beneath the ground, 'and those, I suppose, are the little cellars where
the prisoners keep their small quantities of coals. Unpleasant places to
have to go down to; but very convenient, I dare say.'

'Yes, I shouldn't wonder if they was convenient,' replied the gentleman,
'seeing that a few people live there, pretty snug. That's the Fair, that
is.'

'My friend,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'you don't really mean to say that human
beings live down in those wretched dungeons?'

'Don't I?' replied Mr. Roker, with indignant astonishment; 'why
shouldn't I?'

'Live!--live down there!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

'Live down there! Yes, and die down there, too, very often!' replied Mr.
Roker; 'and what of that? Who's got to say anything agin it? Live down
there! Yes, and a wery good place it is to live in, ain't it?'

As Roker turned somewhat fiercely upon Mr. Pickwick in saying this, and
moreover muttered in an excited fashion certain unpleasant invocations
concerning his own eyes, limbs, and circulating fluids, the latter
gentleman deemed it advisable to pursue the discourse no further. Mr.
Roker then proceeded to mount another staircase, as dirty as that which
led to the place which has just been the subject of discussion, in which
ascent he was closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and Sam.

'There,' said Mr. Roker, pausing for breath when they reached another
gallery of the same dimensions as the one below, 'this is the coffee-
room flight; the one above's the third, and the one above that's the
top; and the room where you're a-going to sleep to-night is the warden's
room, and it's this way--come on.' Having said all this in a breath, Mr.
Roker mounted another flight of stairs with Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller
following at his heels.

These staircases received light from sundry windows placed at some
little distance above the floor, and looking into a gravelled area
bounded by a high brick wall, with iron _chevaux-de-frise_ at the top.
This area, it appeared from Mr. Roker's statement, was the racket-
ground; and it further appeared, on the testimony of the same gentleman,
that there was a smaller area in that portion of the prison which was
nearest Farringdon Street, denominated and called 'the Painted Ground,'
from the fact of its walls having once displayed the semblance of
various men-of-war in full sail, and other artistical effects achieved
in bygone times by some imprisoned draughtsman in his leisure hours.

Having communicated this piece of information, apparently more for the
purpose of discharging his bosom of an important fact, than with any
specific view of enlightening Mr. Pickwick, the guide, having at length
reached another gallery, led the way into a small passage at the extreme
end, opened a door, and disclosed an apartment of an appearance by no
means inviting, containing eight or nine iron bedsteads.

'There,' said Mr. Roker, holding the door open, and looking triumphantly
round at Mr. Pickwick, 'there's a room!'

Mr. Pickwick's face, however, betokened such a very trifling portion of
satisfaction at the appearance of his lodging, that Mr. Roker looked,
for a reciprocity of feeling, into the countenance of Samuel Weller,
who, until now, had observed a dignified silence.

'There's a room, young man,' observed Mr. Roker.

'I see it,' replied Sam, with a placid nod of the head.

'You wouldn't think to find such a room as this in the Farringdon Hotel,
would you?' said Mr. Roker, with a complacent smile.

To this Mr. Weller replied with an easy and unstudied closing of one
eye; which might be considered to mean, either that he would have
thought it, or that he would not have thought it, or that he had never
thought anything at all about it, as the observer's imagination
suggested. Having executed this feat, and reopened his eye, Mr. Weller
proceeded to inquire which was the individual bedstead that Mr. Roker
had so flatteringly described as an out-and-outer to sleep in.

'That's it,' replied Mr. Roker, pointing to a very rusty one in a
corner. 'It would make any one go to sleep, that bedstead would, whether
they wanted to or not.'

'I should think,' said Sam, eyeing the piece of furniture in question
with a look of excessive disgust--'I should think poppies was nothing to
it.'

'Nothing at all,' said Mr. Roker.

'And I s'pose,' said Sam, with a sidelong glance at his master, as if to
see whether there were any symptoms of his determination being shaken by
what passed, 'I s'pose the other gen'l'men as sleeps here _are
_gen'l'men.'

'Nothing but it,' said Mr. Roker. 'One of 'em takes his twelve pints of
ale a day, and never leaves off smoking even at his meals.'

'He must be a first-rater,' said Sam.

'A1,' replied Mr. Roker.

Nothing daunted, even by this intelligence, Mr. Pickwick smilingly
announced his determination to test the powers of the narcotic bedstead
for that night; and Mr. Roker, after informing him that he could retire
to rest at whatever hour he thought proper, without any further notice
or formality, walked off, leaving him standing with Sam in the gallery.

It was getting dark; that is to say, a few gas jets were kindled in this
place which was never light, by way of compliment to the evening, which
had set in outside. As it was rather warm, some of the tenants of the
numerous little rooms which opened into the gallery on either hand, had
set their doors ajar. Mr. Pickwick peeped into them as he passed along,
with great curiosity and interest. Here, four or five great hulking
fellows, just visible through a cloud of tobacco smoke, were engaged in
noisy and riotous conversation over half-emptied pots of beer, or
playing at all-fours with a very greasy pack of cards. In the adjoining
room, some solitary tenant might be seen poring, by the light of a
feeble tallow candle, over a bundle of soiled and tattered papers,
yellow with dust and dropping to pieces from age, writing, for the
hundredth time, some lengthened statement of his grievances, for the
perusal of some great man whose eyes it would never reach, or whose
heart it would never touch. In a third, a man, with his wife and a whole
crowd of children, might be seen making up a scanty bed on the ground,
or upon a few chairs, for the younger ones to pass the night in. And in
a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth, and a seventh, the noise, and the
beer, and the tobacco smoke, and the cards, all came over again in
greater force than before.

In the galleries themselves, and more especially on the stair-cases,
there lingered a great number of people, who came there, some because
their rooms were empty and lonesome, others because their rooms were
full and hot; the greater part because they were restless and
uncomfortable, and not possessed of the secret of exactly knowing what
to do with themselves. There were many classes of people here, from the
labouring man in his fustian jacket, to the broken-down spendthrift in
his shawl dressing-gown, most appropriately out at elbows; but there was
the same air about them all--a kind of listless, jail-bird, careless
swagger, a vagabondish who's-afraid sort of bearing, which is wholly
indescribable in words, but which any man can understand in one moment
if he wish, by setting foot in the nearest debtors' prison, and looking
at the very first group of people he sees there, with the same interest
as Mr. Pickwick did.

'It strikes me, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, leaning over the iron rail at
the stair-head, 'it strikes me, Sam, that imprisonment for debt is
scarcely any punishment at all.'

'Think not, sir?' inquired Mr. Weller.

'You see how these fellows drink, and smoke, and roar,' replied Mr.
Pickwick. 'It's quite impossible that they can mind it much.'

'Ah, that's just the wery thing, Sir,' rejoined Sam, 'they don't mind
it; it's a reg'lar holiday to them--all porter and skittles. It's the
t'other vuns as gets done over vith this sort o' thing; them down-
hearted fellers as can't svig avay at the beer, nor play at skittles
neither; them as vould pay if they could, and gets low by being boxed
up. I'll tell you wot it is, sir; them as is always a-idlin' in public-
houses it don't damage at all, and them as is alvays a-workin' wen they
can, it damages too much. "It's unekal," as my father used to say wen
his grog worn't made half-and-half: "it's unekal, and that's the fault
on it."'

'I think you're right, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, after a few moments'
reflection, 'quite right.'

'P'raps, now and then, there's some honest people as likes it,' observed
Mr. Weller, in a ruminative tone, 'but I never heerd o' one as I can
call to mind, 'cept the little dirty-faced man in the brown coat; and
that was force of habit.'

'And who was he?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'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.

'Wrong for vunce, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, 'for back he come, two
minits afore the time, a-bilin' with rage, sayin' how he'd been nearly
run over by a hackney-coach that he warn't used to it; and he was blowed
if he wouldn't write to the lord mayor. They got him pacified at last;
and for five years arter that, he never even so much as peeped out o'
the lodge gate.'

'At the expiration of that time he died, I suppose,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'No, he didn't, Sir,' replied Sam. 'He got a curiosity to go and taste
the beer at a new public-house over the way, and it wos such a wery nice
parlour, that he took it into his head to go there every night, which he
did for a long time, always comin' back reg'lar about a quarter of an
hour afore the gate shut, which was all wery snug and comfortable. At
last he began to get so precious jolly, that he used to forget how the
time vent, or care nothin' at all about it, and he went on gettin' later
and later, till vun night his old friend wos just a-shuttin' the gate--
had turned the key in fact--wen he come up. "Hold hard, Bill," he says.
"Wot, ain't you come home yet, Tventy?" says the turnkey, "I thought you
wos in, long ago." "No, I wasn't," says the little man, with a smile.
"Well, then, I'll tell you wot it is, my friend," says the turnkey,
openin' the gate wery slow and sulky, "it's my 'pinion as you've got
into bad company o' late, which I'm wery sorry to see. Now, I don't wish
to do nothing harsh," he says, "but if you can't confine yourself to
steady circles, and find your vay back at reg'lar hours, as sure as
you're a-standin' there, I'll shut you out altogether!" The little man
was seized vith a wiolent fit o' tremblin', and never vent outside the
prison walls artervards!'

As Sam concluded, Mr. Pickwick slowly retraced his steps downstairs.
After a few thoughtful turns in the Painted Ground, which, as it was now
dark, was nearly deserted, he intimated to Mr. Weller that he thought it
high time for him to withdraw for the night; requesting him to seek a
bed in some adjacent public-house, and return early in the morning, to
make arrangements for the removal of his master's wardrobe from the
George and Vulture. This request Mr. Samuel Weller prepared to obey,
with as good a grace as he could assume, but with a very considerable
show of reluctance nevertheless. He even went so far as to essay sundry
ineffectual hints regarding the expediency of stretching himself on the
gravel for that night; but finding Mr. Pickwick obstinately deaf to any
such suggestions, finally withdrew.

There is no disguising the fact that Mr. Pickwick felt very low-spirited
and uncomfortable--not for lack of society, for the prison was very
full, and a bottle of wine would at once have purchased the utmost good-
fellowship of a few choice spirits, without any more formal ceremony of
introduction; but he was alone in the coarse, vulgar crowd, and felt the
depression of spirits and sinking of heart, naturally consequent on the
reflection that he was cooped and caged up, without a prospect of
liberation. As to the idea of releasing himself by ministering to the
sharpness of Dodson & Fogg, it never for an instant entered his
thoughts.

In this frame of mind he turned again into the coffee-room gallery, and
walked slowly to and fro. The place was intolerably dirty, and the smell
of tobacco smoke perfectly suffocating. There was a perpetual slamming
and banging of doors as the people went in and out; and the noise of
their voices and footsteps echoed and re-echoed through the passages
constantly. A young woman, with a child in her arms, who seemed scarcely
able to crawl, from emaciation and misery, was walking up and down the
passage in conversation with her husband, who had no other place to see
her in. As they passed Mr. Pickwick, he could hear the female sob
bitterly; and once she burst into such a passion of grief, that she was
compelled to lean against the wall for support, while the man took the
child in his arms, and tried to soothe her.

Mr. Pickwick's heart was really too full to bear it, and he went
upstairs to bed.

Now, although the warder's room was a very uncomfortable one (being, in
every point of decoration and convenience, several hundred degrees
inferior to the common infirmary of a county jail), it had at present
the merit of being wholly deserted save by Mr. Pickwick himself. So, he
sat down at the foot of his little iron bedstead, and began to wonder
how much a year the warder made out of the dirty room. Having satisfied
himself, by mathematical calculation, that the apartment was about equal
in annual value to the freehold of a small street in the suburbs of
London, he took to wondering what possible temptation could have induced
a dingy-looking fly that was crawling over his pantaloons, to come into
a close prison, when he had the choice of so many airy situations--a
course of meditation which led him to the irresistible conclusion that
the insect was insane. After settling this point, he began to be
conscious that he was getting sleepy; whereupon he took his nightcap out
of the pocket in which he had had the precaution to stow it in the
morning, and, leisurely undressing himself, got into bed and fell
asleep.

'Bravo! Heel over toe--cut and shuffle--pay away at it, Zephyr! I'm
smothered if the opera house isn't your proper hemisphere. Keep it up!
Hooray!' These expressions, delivered in a most boisterous tone, and
accompanied with loud peals of laughter, roused Mr. Pickwick from one of
those sound slumbers which, lasting in reality some half-hour, seem to
the sleeper to have been protracted for three weeks or a month.

The voice had no sooner ceased than the room was shaken with such
violence that the windows rattled in their frames, and the bedsteads
trembled again. Mr. Pickwick started up, and remained for some minutes
fixed in mute astonishment at the scene before him.

On the floor of the room, a man in a broad-skirted green coat, with
corduroy knee-smalls and gray cotton stockings, was performing the most
popular steps of a hornpipe, with a slang and burlesque caricature of
grace and lightness, which, combined with the very appropriate character
of his costume, was inexpressibly absurd. Another man, evidently very
drunk, who had probably been tumbled into bed by his companions, was
sitting up between the sheets, warbling as much as he could recollect of
a comic song, with the most intensely sentimental feeling and
expression; while a third, seated on one of the bedsteads, was
applauding both performers with the air of a profound connoisseur, and
encouraging them by such ebullitions of feeling as had already roused
Mr. Pickwick from his sleep.

This last man was an admirable specimen of a class of gentry which never
can be seen in full perfection but in such places--they may be met with,
in an imperfect state, occasionally about stable-yards and Public-
houses; but they never attain their full bloom except in these hot-beds,
which would almost seem to be considerately provided by the legislature
for the sole purpose of rearing them.

He was a tall fellow, with an olive complexion, long dark hair, and very
thick bushy whiskers meeting under his chin. He wore no neckerchief, as
he had been playing rackets all day, and his open shirt collar displayed
their full luxuriance. On his head he wore one of the common
eighteenpenny French skull-caps, with a gaudy tassel dangling therefrom,
very happily in keeping with a common fustian coat. His legs, which,
being long, were afflicted with weakness, graced a pair of Oxford-
mixture trousers, made to show the full symmetry of those limbs. Being
somewhat negligently braced, however, and, moreover, but imperfectly
buttoned, they fell in a series of not the most graceful folds over a
pair of shoes sufficiently down at heel to display a pair of very soiled
white stockings. There was a rakish, vagabond smartness, and a kind of
boastful rascality, about the whole man, that was worth a mine of gold.

This figure was the first to perceive that Mr. Pickwick was looking on;
upon which he winked to the Zephyr, and entreated him, with mock
gravity, not to wake the gentleman.

'Why, bless the gentleman's honest heart and soul!' said the Zephyr,
turning round and affecting the extremity of surprise; 'the gentleman is
awake. Hem, Shakespeare! How do you do, Sir? How is Mary and Sarah, sir?
and the dear old lady at home, Sir? Will you have the kindness to put my
compliments into the first little parcel you're sending that way, sir,
and say that I would have sent 'em before, only I was afraid they might
be broken in the wagon, sir?'

'Don't overwhelm the gentlemen with ordinary civilities when you see
he's anxious to have something to drink,' said the gentleman with the
whiskers, with a jocose air. 'Why don't you ask the gentleman what he'll
take?'

'Dear me, I quite forgot,' replied the other. 'What will you take, sir?
Will you take port wine, sir, or sherry wine, sir? I can recommend the
ale, sir; or perhaps you'd like to taste the porter, sir? Allow me to
have the felicity of hanging up your nightcap, Sir.'

With this, the speaker snatched that article of dress from Mr.
Pickwick's head, and fixed it in a twinkling on that of the drunken man,
who, firmly impressed with the belief that he was delighting a numerous
assembly, continued to hammer away at the comic song in the most
melancholy strains imaginable.

Taking a man's nightcap from his brow by violent means, and adjusting it
on the head of an unknown gentleman, of dirty exterior, however
ingenious a witticism in itself, is unquestionably one of those which
come under the denomination of practical jokes. Viewing the matter
precisely in this light, Mr. Pickwick, without the slightest intimation
of his purpose, sprang vigorously out of bed, struck the Zephyr so smart
a blow in the chest as to deprive him of a considerable portion of the
commodity which sometimes bears his name, and then, recapturing his
nightcap, boldly placed himself in an attitude of defence.

'Now,' said Mr. Pickwick, gasping no less from excitement than from the
expenditure of so much energy, 'come on--both of you--both of you!' With
this liberal invitation the worthy gentleman communicated a revolving
motion to his clenched fists, by way of appalling his antagonists with a
display of science.

It might have been Mr. Pickwick's very unexpected gallantry, or it might
have been the complicated manner in which he had got himself out of bed,
and fallen all in a mass upon the hornpipe man, that touched his
adversaries. Touched they were; for, instead of then and there making an
attempt to commit man-slaughter, as Mr. Pickwick implicitly believed
they would have done, they paused, stared at each other a short time,
and finally laughed outright.

'Well, you're a trump, and I like you all the better for it,' said the
Zephyr. 'Now jump into bed again, or you'll catch the rheumatics. No
malice, I hope?' said the man, extending a hand the size of the yellow
clump of fingers which sometimes swings over a glover's door.

'Certainly not,' said Mr. Pickwick, with great alacrity; for, now that
the excitement was over, he began to feel rather cool about the legs.

'Allow me the H-onour,' said the gentleman with the whiskers, presenting
his dexter hand, and aspirating the h.

'With much pleasure, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick; and having executed a very
long and solemn shake, he got into bed again.

'My name is Smangle, sir,' said the man with the whiskers.

'Oh,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Mine is Mivins,' said the man in the stockings.

'I am delighted to hear it, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Hem,' coughed Mr. Smangle.

'Did you speak, sir?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'No, I did not, sir,' said Mr. Smangle.

All this was very genteel and pleasant; and, to make matters still more
comfortable, Mr. Smangle assured Mr. Pickwick a great many more times
that he entertained a very high respect for the feelings of a gentleman;
which sentiment, indeed, did him infinite credit, as he could be in no
wise supposed to understand them.

'Are you going through the court, sir?' inquired Mr. Smangle.

'Through the what?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Through the court--Portugal Street--the Court for Relief of--you know.'

'Oh, no,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'No, I am not.'

'Going out, perhaps?' suggested Mr. Mivins.

'I fear not,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'I refuse to pay some damages, and
am here in consequence.'

'Ah,' said Mr. Smangle, 'paper has been my ruin.'

'A stationer, I presume, Sir?' said Mr. Pickwick innocently.

'Stationer! No, no; confound and curse me! Not so low as that. No trade.
When I say paper, I mean bills.'

'Oh, you use the word in that sense. I see,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Damme! A gentleman must expect reverses,' said Smangle. 'What of that?
Here am I in the Fleet Prison. Well; good. What then? I'm none the worse
for that, am I?'

'Not a bit,' replied Mr. Mivins. And he was quite right; for, so far
from Mr. Smangle being any the worse for it, he was something the
better, inasmuch as to qualify himself for the place, he had attained
gratuitous possession of certain articles of jewellery, which, long
before that, had found their way to the pawnbroker's.

'Well; but come,' said Mr. Smangle; 'this is dry work. Let's rinse our
mouths with a drop of burnt sherry; the last-comer shall stand it,
Mivins shall fetch it, and I'll help to drink it. That's a fair and
gentlemanlike division of labour, anyhow. Curse me!'

Unwilling to hazard another quarrel, Mr. Pickwick gladly assented to the
proposition, and consigned the money to Mr. Mivins, who, as it was
nearly eleven o'clock, lost no time in repairing to the coffee-room on
his errand.

'I say,' whispered Smangle, the moment his friend had left the room;
'what did you give him?'

'Half a sovereign,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'He's a devilish pleasant gentlemanly dog,' said Mr. Smangle;--'infernal
pleasant. I don't know anybody more so; but--' Here Mr. Smangle stopped
short, and shook his head dubiously.

'You don't think there is any probability of his appropriating the money
to his own use?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Oh, no! Mind, I don't say that; I expressly say that he's a devilish
gentlemanly fellow,' said Mr. Smangle. 'But I think, perhaps, if
somebody went down, just to see that he didn't dip his beak into the jug
by accident, or make some confounded mistake in losing the money as he
came upstairs, it would be as well. Here, you sir, just run downstairs,
and look after that gentleman, will you?'

This request was addressed to a little timid-looking, nervous man, whose
appearance bespoke great poverty, and who had been crouching on his
bedstead all this while, apparently stupefied by the novelty of his
situation.

'You know where the coffee-room is,' said Smangle; 'just run down, and
tell that gentleman you've come to help him up with the jug. Or--stop--
I'll tell you what--I'll tell you how we'll do him,' said Smangle, with
a cunning look.

'How?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Send down word that he's to spend the change in cigars. Capital
thought. Run and tell him that; d'ye hear? They shan't be wasted,'
continued Smangle, turning to Mr. Pickwick. '_I'll_ smoke 'em.'

This manoeuvring was so exceedingly ingenious and, withal, performed
with such immovable composure and coolness, that Mr. Pickwick would have
had no wish to disturb it, even if he had had the power. In a short time
Mr. Mivins returned, bearing the sherry, which Mr. Smangle dispensed in
two little cracked mugs; considerately remarking, with reference to
himself, that a gentleman must not be particular under such
circumstances, and that, for his part, he was not too proud to drink out
of the jug. In which, to show his sincerity, he forthwith pledged the
company in a draught which half emptied it.

An excellent understanding having been by these means promoted, Mr.
Smangle proceeded to entertain his hearers with a relation of divers
romantic adventures in which he had been from time to time engaged,
involving various interesting anecdotes of a thoroughbred horse, and a
magnificent Jewess, both of surpassing beauty, and much coveted by the
nobility and gentry of these kingdoms.

Long before these elegant extracts from the biography of a gentleman
were concluded, Mr. Mivins had betaken himself to bed, and had set in
snoring for the night, leaving the timid stranger and Mr. Pickwick to
the full benefit of Mr. Smangle's experiences.

Nor were the two last-named gentlemen as much edified as they might have
been by the moving passages narrated. Mr. Pickwick had been in a state
of slumber for some time, when he had a faint perception of the drunken
man bursting out afresh with the comic song, and receiving from Mr.
Smangle a gentle intimation, through the medium of the water-jug, that
his audience was not musically disposed. Mr. Pickwick then once again
dropped off to sleep, with a confused consciousness that Mr. Smangle was
still engaged in relating a long story, the chief point of which
appeared to be that, on some occasion particularly stated and set forth,
he had 'done' a bill and a gentleman at the same time.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: When his two-months' stay in Bath is finished, Mr. Pickwick returns to London. Three days later he is taken into custody by a rough, ostentatious sheriff and his helper. Sam Weller puts up a fight but is restrained by Mr. Pickwick. At the sheriff's office, Pickwick observes two young dissolutes. Mr. Perker arrives and attempts to dissuade Mr. Pickwick from going to prison but is unsuccessful. Perker then tells him they must wait for a writ of habeas corpus, which they obtain later that day. Mr. Pickwick and Sam are taken to the Fleet Prison for debtors. There, Pickwick has to undergo the humiliation of "sitting for his portrait," which means allowing all of the turnkeys to scrutinize him closely. Mr. Pickwick sees about getting a bed for the night and is at last incarcerated in prison. The warder, Tom Roker, leads Mr. Pickwick through foul, dingy passageways to his room, insisting upon the excellence of the accommodations. Sam Weller observes that prison does not harm idlers but it wrecks honest men, and he tells of a mild, anonymous prisoner who became so habituated to prison that freedom terrified him. Mr. Pickwick sends Sam to fetch his belongings and goes to bed for the night. He is awakened by his intoxicated roommates, who are exceptionally boisterous. One fellow snatches off Mr. Pickwick's nightcap and puts it on a companion's head, at which Pickwick jumps up and punches him. Another disagreeable roommate, Smangle, suggests they all have a drink at Pickwick's expense. Mr. Pickwick agrees, and Smangle cadges some cigars as well. While Mr. Pickwick tries to sleep, Smangle boasts of his romantic fantasies for hours.