'This,' said the gentleman, thrusting his hands into his pockets,
and looking carelessly over his shoulder to Mr. Pickwick--'this
here is the hall flight.'
'Oh,' replied Mr. Pickwick, looking down a dark and filthy
staircase, which appeared to lead to a range of damp and gloomy
stone vaults, beneath the ground, 'and those, I suppose, are the
little cellars where the prisoners keep their small quantities of
coals. Unpleasant places to have to go down to; but very
convenient, I dare say.'
'Yes, I shouldn't wonder if they was convenient,' replied the
gentleman, 'seeing that a few people live there, pretty snug.
That's the Fair, that is.'
'My friend,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'you don't really mean to say
that human beings live down in those wretched dungeons?'
'Don't I?' replied Mr. Roker, with indignant astonishment;
'why shouldn't I?'
'Live!--live down there!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
'Live down there! Yes, and die down there, too, very often!'
replied Mr. Roker; 'and what of that? Who's got to say anything
agin it? Live down there! Yes, and a wery good place it is to live
in, ain't it?'
As Roker turned somewhat fiercely upon Mr.
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