“What place is this?” inquired Mrs. Bardell, pausing.
“Only one of our public offices,” replied Jackson, hurrying her through a door, and looking round to see that the other women were following. “Look sharp, Isaac!”
“Safe and sound,” replied the man with the ash stick. The door swung heavily after them, and they descended a small flight of steps.
“Here we are at last. All right and tight, Mrs. Bardell!” said Jackson, looking exultingly around.
“What do you mean?” said Mrs. Bardell, with a palpitating heart.
“Just this,” replied Jackson, drawing her a little on one side; “don’t be frightened, Mrs. Bardell. There never was a more delicate man than Dodson, ma’am, or a more humane man than Fogg. It was their duty, in the way of business, to take you in execution for them costs; but they were anxious to spare your feelings as much as they could. What a comfort it must be to you, to think how it’s been done! This is the Fleet, ma’am. Wish you good night, Mrs. Bardell. Good night, Tommy!”
As Jackson hurried away, in company with the man with the ash stick, another man with a key in his hand, who had been looking on, led the bewildered female to a second short flight of steps leading to the doorway. Mrs. Bardell screamed violently; Tommy roared; Mrs. Cluppins shrunk within herself; and Mrs. Sanders made off, without more ado. For, there stood the injured Mr. Pickwick, taking his nightly allowance of air; and beside him leant Samuel Weller, who, seeing Mrs. Bardell, took his hat off with mock reverence, while his master turned indignantly on his heel.
“Don’t bother the woman,” said the turnkey to Weller: “she’s just come in.”
“A pris’ner” said Sam, quickly replacing his hat. “Who’s the plaintives? What for? Speak up, old feller.”
“Dodson and Fogg,” replied the man; “execution on cognovit for costs.”