pounds two and a half-penny, and a gold watch,
on which a relation of mine would probably advance four pounds more. So, I
fell to writing letters, Mr. Aminadab sipping the wine and playing with
one of his watch-chains in the meanwhile.

I wrote to Jones, Brown, and Robinson--to Thompson, and to Jackson
likewise. I wrote to my surly uncle in Pudding-lane. Now was the time to
put the disinterested friendship of Brown to the test; to avail myself of
the repeated offers of service from Jones; to ask for the loan of that
sixpence which Robinson had repeatedly declared was at my command as long
as he had a shilling. I sealed the letters with an unsteady hand, and
consulted Mr. Aminadab as to their dispatch. That gentleman, by some feat
of legerdemain, called up from the bowels of the earth, or from one of
those mysterious localities known as "round the corner," two sprites: one,
his immediate assistant; seedier, however, and not jeweled, who carried a
nobby stick which he continually gnawed. The other, a horrible little man
with a white head and a white neckcloth, twisted round his neck like a
halter. His eye was red, and his teeth were gone, and the odor of rum
compassed him about, like a cloak. To these two acolytes my notes were
confided, and they were directed to bring the answers like lightning to
Blowman's. To Blowman's, in Cursitor-street, Chancery-lane, I was bound,
and a cab was straightway called for my conveyance there-to. For the
matter of that, the distance was so short, I might easily have walked, but
I could not divest myself of the idea that every body in the street knew I
was a prisoner.

I was soon within the hospitable doors of Mr. Blowman, officer to the
Sheriff of Middlesex. His hospitable doors were double, and, for more
hospitality, heavily barred, locked, and chained. These, with the
exceptions of barred windows, and a species of grating-roofed yard
outside, like a monster bird-cage, were the only visible signs of
captivity. Yet there was enough stone in the hearts, and iron in the
souls, of Mr. Blowman's inmates, to build a score of lock-up houses. For
that you may take my word.

I refused the offer of a private room, and was conducted to the
coffee-room, where Mr. Aminadab left me, for a while, to my own
reflections; and to wait for the answers to my letters.

They came--and one friend into the bargain. Jones had gone to Hammersmith,
and wouldn't be back till next July. Brown had been disappointed