“And who was he?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.
“Vy, that’s just the wery point as nobody never know’d,” replied Sam.
“But what did he do?”
“Vy, 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 wos 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 what 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. ’Vy,’ 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 ven 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 wos 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 veskit wery hard, and then a tear started out o’ each eye, which wos wery extraordinary, for it was 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 wos 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, vich he did for a long time, always comin’ back reg’lar about a quarter of an hour afore the gate shut, vich wos 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 vent on gettin’ later and later, till vun night his old friend wos just a shuttin’ the gate—had turned the key in fact—ven 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, vith 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!”