wos struck with apoplexy?’ said the turnkey. ‘Wy,’ says the little creetur, ‘whoever found me, ’ud bring me home, for I’ve got my card in my pocket, Bill,’ he says, ‘ No. 20, Coffee-room Flight’: and that wos true, sure enough, for wen he wanted to make the acquaintance of any newcomer, he used to pull out a little limp card vith them words on it and nothin’ else; in consideration of vich, he vos alvays called Number Tventy. The turnkey takes a fixed look at him, and at last he says in a solemn manner, ‘Tventy,’ he says, ‘I’ll trust you; you won’t get your old friend into trouble.’ ‘No, my boy; I hope I’ve somethin’ better behind here,’ says the little man; and as he said it he hit his little vesket wery hard, and then a tear started out o’ each eye, which wos wery extraordinary, for it wos supposed as water never touched his face. He shook the turnkey by the hand; out he vent⁠—”

“And never came back again,” said Mr. Pickwick.