The above short dialogue took place as Mr. Weller lay extended on his mattress at one end of the room, and the cobbler on his, at the other; the apartment being illumined by the light of a rush candle, and the cobbler’s pipe, which was glowing below the table, like a red-hot coal. The conversation, brief as it was, predisposed Mr. Weller strongly in his landlord’s favour; and raising himself on his elbow he took a more lengthened survey of his appearance than he had yet had either time or inclination to make.
He was a sallow man—all cobblers are; and had a strong bristly beard—all cobblers have. His face was a queer, good-tempered, crooked-featured piece of workmanship, ornamented with a couple of eyes that must have worn a very joyous expression at one time, for they sparkled yet. The man was sixty, by years, and Heaven knows how old by imprisonment, so that his having any look approaching to mirth or contentment, was singular enough. He was a little man, and being half doubled up as he lay in bed, looked about as long as he ought to have been without his legs. He had a great red pipe in his mouth, and was smoking, and staring at the rushlight, in a state of enviable placidity.
“Have you been here long?” inquired Sam, breaking the silence which had lasted for some time.
“Twelve year,” replied the cobbler, biting the end of his pipe as he spoke.
“Contempt?” inquired Sam.
The cobbler nodded.
“Well then,” said Sam, with some sternness, “wot do you persewere in bein’ obstinit for, vastin’ your precious life away, in this here magnified pound? Vy don’t you give in, and tell the Chancellorship that you’re wery sorry for makin’ his court contemptible, and you won’t do so no more?”
The cobbler put his pipe in the corner of his mouth, while he smiled, and then brought it back to its old place again; but said nothing.
“Vy don’t you?” said Sam, urging his question strenuously.