"Be Jasus! and here's the Binch already," exclaimed Captain O'Blunderbuss, thrusting his head out of the coach-window. "That house there, with the trees before it, Frank, is the Marshal's—and a very dacent berth he's got of it: I shouldn't mind standing in his shoes at all, at all. But come along, me dear frind."
Thus speaking, the captain leapt from the vehicle, followed by Frank Curtis and the tipstaff; and, having traversed an enclosure formed by the gloomy-looking wall above alluded to and the high spike-topped boundary of the prison itself, the trio ascended a few steps which led them into the upper lobby of the King's Bench.
[43]. Within the last few years the Fleet has been suppressed, and the Bench, under the general name of the Queen's Prison, has become the receptacle for all metropolitan debtors who are enabled to purchase the luxury of a habeas corpus.
CHAPTER CV.
THE KING'S BENCH PRISON.
The upper lobby was a small, dirty, and sombre-looking outwork of the vast establishment. A huge clock hung against one of the walls—a roasting fire burnt in the grate—and a stout, elderly turnkey, who spoke with a provincial accent, was seated on a high stool near the inner door, watching the persons who came out of the prison, and on whose countenance the glare of a powerful light was thrown by a tin reflector. Grouped near him were several char-women and messengers, engaged in the double occupation of discussing a pot of the best ale and the scandal of the Bench; while another turnkey—a short, active, bustling little fellow, who rejoiced in the nick-name of "Buffer"—was seated inside a small enclosure formed by wood-work breast-high, examining a greasy and well-thumbed book containing sundry hieroglyphics which were supposed to be entries of the prisoners' names.
To Mr. Buffer was Mr. Frank Curtis duly introduced by the tipstaff; and the young gentleman's appellations were forthwith inscribed in the greasy book. He was then desired to pay his gate-fees, which he accordingly did; and, these little matters being settled, Mr. Buffer politely informed him that he might "go inside." The head turnkey—who was the stout, elderly man above alluded to—thereupon opened the door at which he was seated; and Captain O'Blunderbuss led the way, first across a small yard, next through the lower lobby—and thence into the grand enclosure of the King's Bench itself.
Captain O'Blunderbuss turned sharp round to the left, and stopped in admiration before a low building with a roof slanting down from the high wall against which it stood.
"There!" cried the gallant officer, in an ecstacy of enthusiasm: "what place should you be afther taking that to be?"
"Why—I should say it was the scullery or the coal-cellars," replied Frank.