Chapter 41 - Page 2

area bounded by a high brick wall, with iron CHEVAUX-DE-FRISE at
the top. This area, it appeared from Mr. Roker's statement, was
the racket-ground; and it further appeared, on the testimony
of the same gentleman, that there was a smaller area in that
portion of the prison which was nearest Farringdon Street,
denominated and called 'the Painted Ground,' from the fact of
its walls having once displayed the semblance of various men-
of-war in full sail, and other artistical effects achieved in
bygone times by some imprisoned draughtsman in his leisure hours.

Having communicated this piece of information, apparently
more for the purpose of discharging his bosom of an important
fact, than with any specific view of enlightening Mr. Pickwick,
the guide, having at length reached another gallery, led the way
into a small passage at the extreme end, opened a door, and
disclosed an apartment of an appearance by no means inviting,
containing eight or nine iron bedsteads.

'There,' said Mr. Roker, holding the door open, and looking
triumphantly round at Mr. Pickwick, 'there's a room!'

Mr. Pickwick's face, however, betokened such a very trifling
portion of satisfaction at the appearance of his lodging, that
Mr. Roker looked, for a reciprocity of feeling, into the countenance
of Samuel Weller, who, until now, had observed a dignified silence.
'There's a room, young man,' observed Mr. Roker.

'I see it,' replied Sam, with a placid nod of the head.

'You wouldn't think to find such a room as this in the
Farringdon Hotel, would you?' said Mr. Roker, with a
complacent smile.

To this Mr. Weller replied with an easy and unstudied closing
of one eye; which might be considered to mean, either that he
would have thought it, or that he would not have thought it, or
that he had never thought anything at all about it, as the
observer's imagination suggested. Having executed this feat, and
reopened his eye, Mr. Weller proceeded to inquire which was the
individual bedstead that Mr. Roker had so flatteringly described
as an out-and-outer to sleep in.

'That's it,' replied Mr. Roker, pointing to a very rusty one in a
corner. 'It would make any one go to sleep, that bedstead would,
whether they wanted to or not.'

'I should think,' said Sam, eyeing the piece of furniture in
question with a look of excessive disgust--'I should think poppies
was nothing to it.'

'Nothing at all,' said Mr. Roker.

'And I s'pose,' said Sam, with a sidelong glance at his master,
as if to see whether there were any symptoms of his determination
being shaken by what passed, 'I s'pose the other gen'l'men as
sleeps here ARE gen'l'men.'

'Nothing but it,' said Mr. Roker. 'One of 'em