'
'You have forgotten your coat,' said Mr. Pickwick, as they
walked out to the staircase, and closed the door after them.
'Eh?' said Jingle. 'Spout--dear relation--uncle Tom--
couldn't help it--must eat, you know. Wants of nature--and all that.'
'What do you mean?'
'Gone, my dear sir--last coat--can't help it. Lived on a pair of
boots--whole fortnight. Silk umbrella--ivory handle--week--
fact--honour--ask Job--knows it.'
'Lived for three weeks upon a pair of boots, and a silk umbrella
with an ivory handle!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who had only
heard of such things in shipwrecks or read of them in Constable's
Miscellany.
'True,' said Jingle, nodding his head. 'Pawnbroker's shop--
duplicates here--small sums--mere nothing--all rascals.'
'Oh,' said Mr. Pickwick, much relieved by this explanation; 'I
understand you. You have pawned your wardrobe.'
'Everything--Job's too--all shirts gone--never mind--saves
washing. Nothing soon--lie in bed--starve--die--inquest--little
bone-house--poor prisoner--common necessaries--hush it up--
gentlemen of the jury--warden's tradesmen--keep it snug--
natural death--coroner's order--workhouse funeral--serve him
right--all over--drop the curtain.
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