The man was sixty,
by years, and Heaven knows how old by imprisonment, so that
his having any look approaching to mirth or contentment, was
singular enough. He was a little man, and, being half doubled up
as he lay in bed, looked about as long as he ought to have been
without his legs. He had a great red pipe in his mouth, and was
smoking, and staring at the rush-light, in a state of enviable
placidity.
'Have you been here long?' inquired Sam, breaking the silence
which had lasted for some time.
'Twelve year,' replied the cobbler, biting the end of his pipe as
he spoke.
'Contempt?' inquired Sam.
The cobbler nodded.
'Well, then,' said Sam, with some sternness, 'wot do you
persevere in bein' obstinit for, vastin' your precious life away, in
this here magnified pound? Wy don't you give in, and tell the
Chancellorship that you're wery sorry for makin' his court
contemptible, and you won't do so no more?'
The cobbler put his pipe in the corner of his mouth, while he smiled,
and then brought it back to its old place again; but said nothing.
'Wy don't you?' said Sam, urging his question strenuously.
'Ah,' said the cobbler, 'you don't quite understand these
matters.
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