“Very well,” said Tom.
They now struck into a shabby street, and thence wended through stable lanes, filthy alleys, up greasy broken steps, through one close, and down steps in another—threaded dark passages whose debouchures were blocked up with posts to prevent vehicular conveyance, the accumulated dirt of years sensible to the tread from its lumpy unevenness, and the stagnant air rife with pestilence. Tom felt increasing disgust at every step he proceeded, but anything to him appeared better than being seen in the public streets in such company; for, until they got into these labyrinths of nastiness, Tom thought he saw in the looks of every passer-by, as plainly told as if the words were spoken, “There goes a fellow under the care of the bailiff.” In these by-ways, he had not any objection to speak to his companion, and for the first time asked him what he was arrested for.
“At the suit of Mr. M'Kail, sir.”
“Oh! the tailor?” said Tom.
“Yes, sir,” said the bailiff. “And if you would not consider it trifling with the feelings of a gintleman in defficulties, I would make the playful observation, sir, that it's quite in character to be arrested at the suit of a tailor. He! he! he!”
“You're a wag, I see,” said Tom.
“Oh no, sir, only a poetic turn: a small affection I have certainly for Judy Mot, but my rale passion is the muses. We are not far now, sir, from my little bower of repose—which is the name I give my humble abode—small, but snug, sir. You'll see another gintleman there, sir, before you. He is waitin' for bail these three or four days, sir—can't pay as he ought for the 'commodation, but he's a friend o' mine, I may almost say, sir—a litherary gintleman—them litherary gintlemen is always in defficulties mostly. I suppose you're a litherary gintleman, sir—though you're rather ginteely dhressed for one?”
“No,” said Tom, “I am not.”
“I thought you wor, sir, by being acquainted with this other gintleman.”
“An acquaintance of mine!” said Tom, with surprise.