"Rather so," replied the young man. "But I don't care so much about that, as on account of being locked up in this cursed place. The fact is I must go over to the Bench; and I dare say Sir Christopher won't let me lie very long there."
"You require a habeas, you know," observed the lawyer. "But are you sure that you're sued in the Court of Queen's Bench? because, if it is in the Common Pleas or Exchequer, you will have to go to the Fleet."
"The devil!" ejaculated Frank. "But here's a paper which Mac Grab gave me——"
"Ah! that's right," said Mr. Pepperton, examining the document placed in his hands. "Yes—it's in the Bench, safe enough. Holloa!" he exclaimed suddenly, after a few moments' silence: "here's an error in the description. Your name is Francis, and not Frank."
"Just so!" cried the prisoner, his heart fluttering with the vague hope which his legal adviser's words and manner had encouraged.
"Well—I think—mind, I think that it is highly probable we may set the caption aside," continued Pepperton. "At all events it would be worth the trying. But I must apply to the Judge in Chambers this afternoon; and if we do happen to fail—mind, I say if we do—why, then you can pass over to the Bench to-morrow."
Somehow or another, persons locked up in spunging-houses always feel confident of getting out on the slightest legal quibble that their ingenious attorneys may suggest. They do not apprehend the chance of failure, and of disbursing two or three guineas, which they can so ill afford, for nothing: the process of applying to a Judge in Chambers seems so certain of a triumphant issue, and there is such a spell in the bare idea, that the door of freedom appears already opening to the touch.
Frank Curtis was not an exception to the general rule which we have mentioned; and he forthwith desired Mr. Pepperton to adopt the necessary steps, although this gentleman assured him that nothing could be done until the after part of the day.
Poor, deluded captive! Little did he think Mr. Pepperton was well aware beforehand that there was not the shadow of the ghost of a chance of success; but that his only motive in suggesting these proceedings was to make as much out of his client as possible.
When Pepperton had left the room, Frank Curtis began to pace it as if he were a Wandering Jew confined to a very miniature world; and he examined the pictures over and over again, until they seemed the most familiar friends of the kind he had ever known. Then he returned to the window, and beheld Mr. Mac Grab and one of his men just starting in a queer-looking gig upon a suburban expedition; and having watched the equipage until it was no longer visible, he bethought himself of asking for a newspaper. He accordingly rang the bell, and intimated his wishes to the old woman, who, after keeping him in suspense as usual for ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, returned with a Weekly Dispatch a fortnight old and a Times of ten days back. Curtis could scarcely control his indignation; and, tossing a shilling to the harridan, he desired her to send out and buy him a morning paper. She departed accordingly, and in half-an-hour returned with that day's Times, whereby Mr. Frank Curtis was enabled to divert himself until two o'clock, when he partook of an execrable chop nearly raw, a potato that seemed as if it were iced, and a pint of wine which appeared to have been warmed.