gn as his,
and charging Mr Pecksniff with the fraud he had committed. In this
proceeding also, John was hotly interested; observing, with his usual
irreverance, that Mr Pecksniff had been a successful rascal all his
life through, and that it would be a lasting source of happiness to him
(John) if he could help to do him justice in the smallest particular.

A busy day! But Martin had no lodgings yet; so when these matters were
disposed of, he excused himself from dining with John Westlock and was
fain to wander out alone, and look for some. He succeeded, after great
trouble, in engaging two garrets for himself and Mark, situated in a
court in the Strand, not far from Temple Bar. Their luggage, which was
waiting for them at a coach-office, he conveyed to this new place of
refuge; and it was with a glow of satisfaction, which as a selfish man
he never could have known and never had, that, thinking how much pains
and trouble he had saved Mark, and how pleased and astonished Mark would
be, he afterwards walked up and down, in the Temple, eating a meat-pie
for his dinner.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

IN WHICH MRS HARRIS ASSISTED BY A TEAPOT, IS THE CAUSE OF A DIVISION
BETWEEN FRIENDS

Mrs Gamp's apartment in Kingsgate Street, High Holborn, wore,
metaphorically speaking, a robe of state. It was swept and garnished for
the reception of a visitor. That visitor was Betsey Prig; Mrs Prig, of
Bartlemy's; or as some said Barklemy's, or as some said Bardlemy's; for
by all these endearing and familiar appellations, had the hospital of
Saint Bartholomew become a household word among the sisterhood which
Betsey Prig adorned.

Mrs Gamp's apartment was not a spacious one, but, to a contented mind,
a closet is a palace; and the first-floor front at Mr Sweedlepipe's may
have been, in the imagination of Mrs Gamp, a stately pile. If it were
not exactly that, to restless intellects, it at least comprised as much
accommodation as any person, not sanguine to insanity, could have looked
for in a room of its dimensions. For only keep the bedstead always in
your mind; and you were safe. That was the grand secret. Remembering the
bedstead, you might even stoop to look under the little round table
for anything you had dropped, without hurting yourself much against the
chest of drawers, or qualifying as a patient of Saint Bartholomew, by
falling into the fire.

Visitors were much assisted in their cautious efforts to preserve an
unflagging recol