"Would you like to see a whistling-shop, sir?" inquired Job Trotter.
"What do you mean?" was Mr.Pickwick's counter inquiry.
"A vistlin' shop, sir," interposed Mr.Weller.
"What is that, Sam? A bird-fancier's?" inquired Mr.Pickwick.
"Bless your heart, no, sir," replied Job; "a whistling-shop, sir, is where they sell spirits." Mr.Job Trotter briefly explained here, that all persons, being prohibited under heavy penalties from conveying spirits into debtors' prisons, and such commodities being highly prized by the ladies and gentlemen confined therein, it had occurred to some speculative turnkey to connive, for certain lucrative considerations, at two or three prisoners retailing the favourite article of gin, for their own profit and advantage.
"This plan, you see, sir, has been gradually introduced into all the prisons for debt," said Mr.Trotter.
"And it has this wery great advantage," said Sam, "that the turnkeys takes wery good care to seize hold o' ev'ry body but them as pays 'em, that attempt the willainy, and wen it gets in the papers they're applauded for their wigilance; so it cuts two ways--frightens other people from the trade, and elewates their own characters.""Exactly so, Mr.Weller," observed Job.
"Well, but are these rooms never searched, to ascertain whether any spirits are concealed in them?" said Mr.Pickwick.
"Cert'nly they are, sir," replied Sam; "but the turnkeys knows beforehand, and gives the word to the wistlers, and you may wistle for it wen you go to look."By this time, Job had tapped at a door, which was opened by a gentleman with an uncombed head, who bolted it after them when they had walked in, and grinned; upon which Job grinned, and Sam also; whereupon Mr.Pickwick, thinking it might be expected of him, kept on smiling to the end of the interview.
The gentleman with the uncombed head appeared quite satisfied with this mute announcement of their business, and, producing a flat stone bottle, which might hold about a couple of quarts, from beneath his bedstead, filled out three glasses of gin, which Job Trotter and Sam disposed of in a most workmanlike manner.
"Any more?" said the whistling gentleman.
"No more," replied Job Trotter.
Mr.Pickwick paid, the door was unbolted, and out they came; the uncombed gentleman bestowing a friendly nod upon Mr.Roker, who happened to be passing at the moment.
From this spot, Mr.Pickwick wandered along all the galleries, up and down all the staircases, and once again round the whole area of the yard.
The great body of the prison population appeared to be Mivins, and Smangle, and the parson, and the butcher, and the leg, over and over, and over again.
There were the same squalor, the same turmoil and noise, the same general characteristics, in every corner; in the best and the worst alike.The whole place seemed restless and troubled; and the people were crowding and flitting to and fro, like the shadows in an uneasy dream.
"I have seen enough," said Mr.Pickwick, as he threw himself into a chair in his little apartment."My head aches with these scenes, and my heart too.Henceforth I will be a prisoner in my own room."And Mr.Pickwick steadfastly adhered to this determination.For three long months he remained shut up, all day; only stealing out at night to breathe the air when the greater part of his fellow prisoners were in bed or carousing in their rooms.His health was beginning to suffer from the closeness of the confinement, but neither the often-repeated entreaties of Perker and his friends, nor the still more frequently-repeated warnings and admonitions of Mr.Samuel Weller, could induce him to alter one jot of his inflexible resolution.
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