Jingle delivered this singular summary of his prospects in life, with his accustomed volubility, and with various twitches of the countenance to counterfeit smiles. Mr. Pickwick easily perceived that his recklessness was assumed, and looking him full, but not unkindly, in the face, saw that his eyes were moist with tears.

“Good fellow,” said Jingle, pressing his hand, and turning his head away. “Ungrateful dog⁠—boyish to cry⁠—can’t help it⁠—bad fever⁠—weak⁠—ill⁠—hungry. Deserved it all⁠—but suffered much⁠—very.” Wholly unable to keep up appearances any longer, and perhaps rendered worse by the effort he had made, the dejected stroller sat down on the stairs, and, covering his face with his hands, sobbed like a child.

“Come, come,” said Mr. Pickwick, with considerable emotion, “we will see what can be done, when I know all about the matter. Here, Job; where is that fellow?”