“Certainly,” interposed Jingle, with great firmness. “Clear head⁠—man of the world⁠—quite right⁠—perfectly.”

“By compounding with his creditor, releasing his clothes from the pawnbroker’s, relieving him in prison, and paying for his passage,” continued Perker, without noticing Jingle’s observation, “you have already lost upwards of fifty pounds.”

“Not lost,” said Jingle hastily, “Pay it all⁠—stick to business⁠—cash up⁠—every farthing. Yellow fever, perhaps⁠—can’t help that⁠—if not⁠—” Here Mr. Jingle paused, and striking the crown of his hat with great violence, passed his hand over his eyes, and sat down.

“He means to say,” said Job, advancing a few paces, “that if he is not carried off by the fever, he will pay the money back again. If he lives, he will, Mr. Pickwick. I will see it done. I know he will, Sir,” said Job, with energy. “I could undertake to swear it.”