What befell Mr. Pickwick when he got into the Fleet; what Prisoners he saw there; and how he passed

           Mr.TomRoker,thegentlemanwhohadaccompaniedMr.Pickwickintotheprison,turnedsharproundtotherightwhenhegottothebottomofthelittleflightofsteps,andledtheway,throughanirongatewhichstoodopen,andupanothershortflightofsteps,intoalongnarrowgallery,dirtyandlow,pavedwithstone,andverydimlylightedbyawindowateachremoteend.

           ‘This,’saidthegentleman,thrustinghishandsintohispockets,andlookingcarelesslyoverhisshouldertoMr.Pickwick—‘thishereisthehallflight.’

           ‘Oh,’repliedMr.Pickwick,lookingdownadarkandfilthystaircase,whichappearedtoleadtoarangeofdampandgloomystonevaults,beneaththeground,‘andthose,Isuppose,arethelittlecellarswheretheprisonerskeeptheirsmallquantitiesofcoals.Unpleasantplacestohavetogodownto;butveryconvenient,Idaresay.’

           ‘Yes,Ishouldn’twonderiftheywasconvenient,’repliedthegentleman,‘seeingthatafewpeoplelivethere,prettysnug.That’stheFair,thatis.’

           ‘Myfriend,’saidMr.Pickwick,‘youdon’treallymeantosaythathumanbeingslivedowninthosewretcheddungeons?’

           ‘Don’tI?’repliedMr.Roker,withindignantastonishment;‘whyshouldn’tI?’

           ‘Live!livedownthere!’exclaimedMr.Pickwick.

           ‘Livedownthere!Yes,anddiedownthere,too,veryoften!’repliedMr.

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