'Mr. Pickwick!' exclaimed Job aloud.
'Eh?' said Jingle, starting from his seat.
'Mr ——! So it is—queer place—strange things—serves me right—very.' Mr. Jingle thrust his hands into the place where his trousers pockets used to be, and,dropping his chin upon his breast, sank back into his chair.
Mr. Pickwick was affected; the two men looked so very miserable. The sharp, involuntary glance Jingle had cast at a small piece of raw loin of mutton,which Job had brought in with him, said more of their reduced state than two hours' explanation could have done. Mr. Pickwick looked mildly at Jingle, and said—