The relation of this affecting incident of private life brought master and man to Mr. Perker’s chambers. Lowten, holding the door half open, was in conversation with a rustily-clad, miserable-looking man, in boots without toes and gloves without fingers. There were traces of privation and suffering⁠—almost of despair⁠—in his lank and careworn countenance; he felt his poverty, for he shrank to the dark side of the staircase as Mr. Pickwick approached.

“It’s very unfortunate,” said the stranger, with a sigh.

“Very,” said Lowten, scribbling his name on the doorpost with his pen, and rubbing it out again with the feather. “Will you leave a message for him?”

“When do you think he’ll be back?” inquired the stranger.