There was no fire in the fireplace; there was no candle; by the faint light which struggled through the window I perceived that I was in a garret; that all the furniture visible was a bed, and a man in the bed, a table and a chair. On the mantelshelf stood a candlestick without a candle and a tinder box.
"Who is it?" asked the man in bed.
"I am in search of Sam Semple. Are you Sam Semple?"
"I know that voice." The man sat up. "Is it the voice of Jack Pentecrosse?"
"The same. What cheer, man?"
For all answer, he burst out crying like a child.
"Oh! Jack," he said, "I am starving. I made up my mind to starve. I have no longer any clothes. I have not even a candle. I have no money. I have not even a sheet of paper to write a letter, and I deserve it all—yes, I deserve it all."
"Why, this is bad. But let me first get you some food. Then we will talk."
I went downstairs and found a woman, who told me of a shop where I could get some necessaries, and I presently returned bearing food and a bottle of wine, some coals and candles, and a warm coat, which I thought would be useful.
By the light of the candle and the fire I could perceive that the condition of the unhappy poet was miserable indeed. Never was there a more wretched den of a garret. The plaster had fallen from the walls; the window was mostly stuffed with rags in place of glass; in a word, everything betokened the greatest extremity of poverty. As for the man himself, he had neither coat, waistcoat, nor shoes. He sat on the bed half-dressed, but the rest of his wardrobe had been pawned or sold. There were no books; there were no papers; there was nothing to show his calling; and there was no sign of food.