After groping about in the gallery for some time, attempting in
the dim light to decipher the numbers on the different doors, he
at length appealed to a pot-boy, who happened to be pursuing
his morning occupation of gleaning for pewter.
'Which is twenty-seven, my good fellow?' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Five doors farther on,' replied the pot-boy. 'There's the
likeness of a man being hung, and smoking the while, chalked
outside the door.'
Guided by this direction, Mr. Pickwick proceeded slowly along
the gallery until he encountered the 'portrait of a gentleman,'
above described, upon whose countenance he tapped, with the
knuckle of his forefinger--gently at first, and then audibly. After
repeating this process several times without effect, he ventured to
open the door and peep in.
There was only one man in the room, and he was leaning out
of window as far as he could without overbalancing himself,
endeavouring, with great perseverance, to spit upon the crown
of the hat of a personal friend on the parade below. As neither
speaking, coughing, sneezing, knocking, nor any other ordinary
mode of attracting attention, made this person aware of the
presence of a visitor, Mr.
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