“What is that, Sam? A bird-fancier’s?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.
“Bless your heart, no, sir,” replied Job; “a whistling-shop, sir, is where they sell spirits.” Mr. Job Trotter briefly explained here that all persons being prohibited under heavy penalties from conveying spirits into debtors’ prisons, and such commodities being highly prized by the ladies and gentlemen confined therein, it had occurred to some speculative turnkey to connive, for certain lucrative considerations, at two or three prisoners retailing the favourite article of gin, for their own profit and advantage.
“This plan you see, sir, has been gradually introduced into all the prisons for debt,” said Mr. Trotter.
“And it has this wery great advantage,” said Sam, “that the turnkeys takes wery good care to seize hold o’ ev’rybody but them as pays ’em, that attempts the willainy, and ven it gets in the papers they’re applauded for their wigilance; so it cuts two ways—frightens other people from the trade, and elewates their own characters.”
“Exactly so, Mr. Weller,” observed Job.
“Well, but are these rooms never searched to ascertain whether any spirits are concealed in them?” said Mr. Pickwick.
“Cert’nly they are, sir,” replied Sam; “but the turnkeys knows beforehand, and gives the word to the wistlers, and you may whistle for it ven you go to look.”
By this time, Job had tapped at a door, which was opened by a gentleman with an uncombed head, who bolted it after them when they had walked in, and grinned; upon which Job grinned, and Sam also; whereupon Mr. Pickwick, thinking it might be expected of him, kept on smiling to the end of the interview.
The gentleman with the uncombed head appeared quite satisfied with this mute announcement of their business, and, producing a flat stone bottle, which might hold about a couple of quarts, from beneath his bedstead, filled out three glasses of gin, which Job Trotter and Sam disposed of in a most workmanlike manner.