Chichester shivered—more through nervousness than actual cold; and he felt an oppressive sensation at the bottom of his stomach, as well as at the chest.
The officer endeavoured to console him, by observing that "it was lucky he had been taken so close to the prison on such a rainy night."
The ruined young man envied many a poor wretch whom he passed on his way; for he knew that it was far easier to get into a debtors' gaol than to get out of it.
At length they arrived at the prison.
It was now nine o'clock; and the place, viewed by the flickering light of the lamp at the gate of the governor's house, wore a melancholy and sombre appearance. The prisoner was introduced into a small lobby, where an elderly turnkey with knee-breeches and gaiters, thrust a small loaf of bread into his hand, and immediately consigned him to the care of another turnkey, who led him through several alleys to the staircase communicating with the Receiving Ward.
The turnkey pulled a wire, which rang a bell on the first floor.
"Who rings?" cried a voice at the top of the stairs.
"Sheriffs debtor—Arthur Chichester—L. S.," replied the turnkey, in a loud sing-song voice.
Chichester afterwards learnt that he was mentioned as a sheriff's prisoner, in contra-distinction to one arrested by a warrant from the Court of Requests; and that L. S. meant London side—an intimation that he had been arrested in the City of London, and not in the County of Middlesex.
Having ascended a flight of stone steps, Chichester was met at the door of the Receiving Ward by the steward thereof. This steward was himself a prisoner, but was considered a trustworthy person, and had therefore been selected by the governor to preside over that department of the prison.