‘How do you find yourself, sir?’ said Mr Flintwinch, as soon as he could disengage himself, which he struggled to do with very little ceremony. ‘Thank you, no; I don’t want any more.’ This was in reference to another menace of attention from his recovered friend. ‘Well, Arthur. You remember what I said to you about sleeping dogs and missing ones. It’s come true, you see.’
He was as imperturbable as ever, to all appearance, and nodded his head in a moralising way as he looked round the room.
‘And this is the Marshalsea prison for debt!’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘Hah! you have brought your pigs to a very indifferent market, Arthur.’
If Arthur had patience, Rigaud had not. He took his little Flintwinch, with fierce playfulness, by the two lapels of his coat, and cried:
‘To the Devil with the Market, to the Devil with the Pigs, and to the Devil with the Pig-Driver! Now! Give me the answer to my letter.’
‘If you can make it convenient to let go a moment, sir,’ returned Mr Flintwinch, ‘I’ll first hand Mr Arthur a little note that I have for him.’
He did so. It was in his mother’s maimed writing, on a slip of paper, and contained only these words:
‘I hope it is enough that you have ruined yourself. Rest contented without more ruin. Jeremiah Flintwinch is my messenger and representative. Your affectionate M. C.’
Clennam read this twice, in silence, and then tore it to pieces. Rigaud in the meanwhile stepped into a chair, and sat himself on the back with his feet upon the seat.
‘Now, Beau Flintwinch,’ he said, when he had closely watched the note to its destruction, ‘the answer to my letter?’