“Oh,” replied Mr. Pickwick, looking down a dark and filthy staircase, which appeared to lead to a range of damp and gloomy stone vaults, beneath the ground, “and those, I suppose, are the little cellars where the prisoners keep their small quantities of coals. Unpleasant places to have to go down to; but very convenient, I dare say.”

“Yes, I shouldn’t wonder if they was convenient,” replied the gentleman, “seeing that a few people live there, pretty snug. That’s the Fair, that is.”

“My friend,” said Mr. Pickwick, “you don’t really mean to say that human beings live down in those wretched dungeons?”

“Don’t I?” replied Mr. Roker, with indignant astonishment; “why shouldn’t I?”