There were two or three other men in the room, congregated in a little knot, and noiselessly talking among themselves. There was a lean and haggard woman, too⁠—a prisoner’s wife⁠—who was watering, with great solicitude, the wretched stump of a dried-up, withered plant, which, it was plain to see, could never send forth a green leaf again⁠—too true an emblem, perhaps, of the office she had come there to discharge.

Such were the objects which presented themselves to Mr. Pickwick’s view, as he looked round him in amazement. The noise of someone stumbling hastily into the room, roused him. Turning his eyes towards the door, they encountered the newcomer; and in him, through his rags and dirt, he recognised the familiar features of Mr. Job Trotter.

“ Mr. Pickwick!” exclaimed Job aloud.

“Eh?” said Jingle, starting from his seat.