of the Chancery prisoner who had died the night before, awaiting the mockery of an inquest. The body! It is the lawyer's term for the restless whirling mass of cares and anxieties, affections, hopes, and griefs, that make up the living man. The law had his body; and there it lay, clothed in grave clothes, an awful witness to its tender mercy.
"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 attempts 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."
