“Certainly,” interposed Jingle, with great firmness. “Clear head—man of the world—quite right—perfectly.”
“By compounding with his creditor, releasing his clothes from the pawnbroker’s, relieving him in prison, and paying for his passage,” continued Perker, without noticing Jingle’s observation, “you have already lost upwards of fifty pounds.”
“Not lost,” said Jingle, hastily. “Pay it all—stick to business—cash up—every farthing. Yellow fever perhaps—can’t help that—if not—” Here Mr. Jingle paused, and striking the crown of his hat with great violence, passed his hand over his eyes, and sat down.
“He means to say,” said Job, advancing a few paces, “that if he is not carried off by the fever, he will pay the money back again. If he lives, he will, Mr. Pickwick. I will see it done. I know he will, sir,” said Job, with energy. “I could undertake to swear it.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Pickwick, who had been bestowing a score or two of frowns upon Perker, to stop his summary of benefits conferred, which the little attorney obstinately disregarded, “you must be careful not to play any more desperate cricket matches, Mr. Jingle, or to renew your acquaintance with Sir Thomas Blazo, and I have little doubt of your preserving your health.”
Mr. Jingle smiled at this sally, but looked rather foolish notwithstanding; so Mr. Pickwick changed the subject by saying:
“You don’t happen to know, do you, what has become of another friend of yours—a more humble one, whom I saw at Rochester?”
“Dismal Jemmy?” inquired Jingle.
“Yes.”