"What! And giving up what was offered him here!" exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
"Treating Perker's offer of eighteen bob a-week, and a rise if he behaved himself, like dirt," replied Lowten. "He said he must go along with the other one, and so they persuaded Perker to write again, and they've got him something on the same estate; not near so good, Perker says, as a convict would get in New South Wales, if he appeared at his trial in a new suit of clothes."
"Foolish fellow," said Mr. Pickwick, with glistening eyes. "Foolish fellow."
"Oh, it's worse than foolish; it's downright sneaking, you know," replied Lowten, nibbing the pen with a contemptuous face. "He says that he's the only friend he ever had, and he's attached to him, and all that. Friendship's a very good thing in its way: we are all very friendly and comfortable at the Stump, for instance, over our grog, where every man pays for himself; but damn hurting yourself for anybody else, you know! No man should have more than two attachments—the first, to number one, and the second to the ladies; that's what I say—ha! ha!" Mr. Lowten concluded with a loud laugh, half in jocularity, and half in derision, which was prematurely cut short by the sound of Perker's footsteps on the stairs at the first approach of which, he vaulted on his stool with an agility most remarkable, and wrote intensely.
The greeting between Mr. Pickwick and his professional adviser was warm and cordial; the client was scarcely ensconced in the attorney's arm chair, however, when a knock was heard at the door, and a voice inquired whether Mr. Perker was within.
"Hark!" said Perker, "that's one of our vagabond friends—Jingle himself, my dear sir. Will you see him?"
"What do you think?" inquired Mr. Pickwick, hesitating.
"Yes, I think you had better. Here, you sir, what's your name, walk in, will you?"
In compliance with this unceremonious invitation, Jingle
