Such were the objects which presented themselves to Mr. Pickwick’s view, as he looked round him in amazement. The noise of some one stumbling hastily into the room, roused him. Turning his eyes towards the door, they encountered the new comer; and in him, through his rags and dirt, he recognised the familiar features of Mr. Job Trotter.
“Mr. Pickwick!” exclaimed Job aloud.
“Eh?” said Jingle, starting from his seat. “Mr.——! So it is—queer place—strange thing—serves me right—very.” Mr. Jingle thrust his hands into the place where his trousers pockets used to be, and, dropping his chin upon his breast, sank back into his chair.
Mr. Pickwick was affected; the two men looked so very miserable. The sharp involuntary glance Jingle had cast at a small piece of raw loin of mutton, which Job had brought in with him, said more of their reduced state than two hours’ explanation could have done. Mr. Pickwick looked mildly at Jingle, and said:
“I should like to speak to you in private. Will you step out for an instant?”
“Certainly,” said Jingle, rising hastily. “Can’t step far—no danger of over-walking yourself here—Spike park—grounds pretty—romantic, but not extensive—open for public inspection—family always in town—housekeeper desperately careful—very.”
“You have forgotten your coat,” said Mr. Pickwick, as they walked out to the staircase, and closed the door after them.
“Eh?” said Jingle. “Spout—dear relation—Uncle Tom—couldn’t help it—must eat, you know. Wants of nature—and all that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Gone, my dear sir—last coat—can’t help it. Lived on a pair of boots—whole fortnight. Silk umbrella—ivory handle—week—fact—honour—ask Job—knows it.”