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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба
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- Стр. 682/859
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‘
Curious
scene
this
,
is
it
not
,
Sam
?
’
said
Mr
.
Pickwick
,
looking
good
-
humouredly
round
.
‘
Wery
much
so
,
Sir
,
’
replied
Sam
.
‘
Wonders
’
ull
never
cease
,
’
added
Sam
,
speaking
to
himself
.
‘
I
’
m
wery
much
mistaken
if
that
,
ere
Jingle
worn
’
t
a
-
doin
somethin
’
in
the
water
-
cart
way
!
’
The
area
formed
by
the
wall
in
that
part
of
the
Fleet
in
which
Mr
.
Pickwick
stood
was
just
wide
enough
to
make
a
good
racket
-
court
;
one
side
being
formed
,
of
course
,
by
the
wall
itself
,
and
the
other
by
that
portion
of
the
prison
which
looked
(
or
rather
would
have
looked
,
but
for
the
wall
)
towards
St
.
Paul
’
s
Cathedral
.
Sauntering
or
sitting
about
,
in
every
possible
attitude
of
listless
idleness
,
were
a
great
number
of
debtors
,
the
major
part
of
whom
were
waiting
in
prison
until
their
day
of
‘
going
up
’
before
the
Insolvent
Court
should
arrive
;
while
others
had
been
remanded
for
various
terms
,
which
they
were
idling
away
as
they
best
could
.
Some
were
shabby
,
some
were
smart
,
many
dirty
,
a
few
clean
;
but
there
they
all
lounged
,
and
loitered
,
and
slunk
about
with
as
little
spirit
or
purpose
as
the
beasts
in
a
menagerie
.
Lolling
from
the
windows
which
commanded
a
view
of
this
promenade
were
a
number
of
persons
,
some
in
noisy
conversation
with
their
acquaintance
below
,
others
playing
at
ball
with
some
adventurous
throwers
outside
,
others
looking
on
at
the
racket
-
players
,
or
watching
the
boys
as
they
cried
the
game
.
Dirty
,
slipshod
women
passed
and
repassed
,
on
their
way
to
the
cooking
-
house
in
one
corner
of
the
yard
;
children
screamed
,
and
fought
,
and
played
together
,
in
another
;
the
tumbling
of
the
skittles
,
and
the
shouts
of
the
players
,
mingled
perpetually
with
these
and
a
hundred
other
sounds
;
and
all
was
noise
and
tumult
—
save
in
a
little
miserable
shed
a
few
yards
off
,
where
lay
,
all
quiet
and
ghastly
,
the
body
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
.
