“Poor man!” said Mr. Pickwick. “Are his chances of getting out of his difficulties really so great?”

“Chances be d⁠⸺⁠d,” replied Price; “he hasn’t half the ghost of one. I wouldn’t give that for his chance of walking about the streets this time ten years.” With this, Mr. Price snapped his fingers contemptuously, and rang the bell.

“Give me a sheet of paper, Crookey,” said Mr. Price to the attendant, who in dress and general appearance looked something between a bankrupt glazier, and a drover in a state of insolvency; “and a glass of brandy-and-water, Crookey, d’ye hear? I’m going to write to my father, and I must have a stimulant, or I shan’t be able to pitch it strong enough into the old boy.” At this facetious speech, the young boy, it is almost needless to say, was fairly convulsed.