remember Tom Martin, Neddy?" said Roker, appealing to another man in the lodge, who was paring the mud off his shoes with a five-and-twenty bladed pocket knife.
"I should think so," replied the party addressed, with a strong emphasis on the personal pronoun.
"Bless my dear eyes!" said Mr. Roker, shaking his head slowly from side to side, and gazing abstractedly out of the grated windows before him, as if he were fondly recalling some peaceful scene of his early youth; "it seems but yesterday that he whopped the coal-heaver down Fox-under-theHill by the wharf there. I think I can see him now, a coming up the Strand between the two street-keepers, a little sobered by the bruising, with a patch o' winegar and brown paper over his right eyelid, and that 'ere lovely bulldog, as pinned the little boy arterwards, a following at his heels. What a rum thing Time is, ain't it, Neddy?"
The gentleman to whom these observations were addressed, who appeared of a taciturn and thoughtful cast, merely echoed the inquiry; Mr. Roker, shaking off the poetical and gloomy train of thought into which he had been betrayed, descended to the common business of life, and resumed his pen.
"Do you know what the third gentleman is?" inquired Mr. Pickwick, not very much gratified by this description of his future associates.
"What is that Simpson, Neddy?" said Mr. Roker, turning to his companion.
"What Simpson?" said Neddy.
"Why him in twenty-seven in the third, that this gentleman's going to be chummed on."
"Oh, him!" replied Neddy: "he's nothing exactly. He was a horse chaunter: he's a leg now."
"Ah, so I thought," rejoined Mr. Roker, closing the book, and placing the small piece of paper in Mr. Pickwick's hands. "That's the ticket, sir."
Very much perplexed by this summary disposition of his person, Mr. Pickwick walked back into the prison, revolving
