l of 'Barney
Brallaghan,' off went Bungay to Dublin, and produced his rollicking
Hibernian story of 'Looney MacTwolter.' When Doctor Hicks brought out
his 'Wanderings in Mesopotamia' under Bacon's auspices, Bungay produced
Professor Sandiman's 'Researches in Zahara;' and Bungay is publishing
his 'Pall Mall Gazette' as a counterpoise to Bacon's 'Whitehall Review.'
Let us go and hear about the 'Gazette.' There may be a place for you in
it, Pen, my boy. We will go and see Shandon. We are sure to find him at
home."

"Where does he live?" asked Pen.

"In the Fleet Prison," Warrington said. "And very much at home he is
there, too. He is the king of the place."

Pen had never seen this scene of London life, and walked with no small
interest in at the grim gate of that dismal edifice. They went through
the anteroom, where the officers and janitors of the place were seated,
and passing in at the wicket, entered the prison. The noise and the
crowd, the life and the shouting, the shabby bustle of the place, struck
and excited Pen. People moved about ceaselessly and restless, like caged
animals in a menagerie. Men were playing at fives. Others pacing and
tramping: this one in colloquy with his lawyer in dingy black--that one
walking sadly, with his wife by his side, and a child on his arm.
Some were arrayed in tattered dressing-gowns, and had a look of rakish
fashion. Everybody seemed to be busy, humming, and on the move. Pen felt
as if he choked in the place, and as if the door being locked upon him
they never would let him out.

They went through a court up a stone staircase, and through passages
full of people, and noise, and cross lights, and black doors clapping
and banging;--Pen feeling as one does in a feverish morning dream. At
last the same little runner who had brought Shandon's note, and had
followed them down Fleet Street munching apples, and who showed the way
to the two gentlemen through the prison, said, "This is the Captain's
door," and Mr. Shandon's voice from within bade them enter.

The room, though bare, was not uncheerful. The sun was shining in at the
window--near which sate a lady at work, who had been gay and beautiful
once, but in whose faded face kindness and tenderness still beamed.
Through all his errors and reckless mishaps and misfortunes, this
faithful creature adored her husband, and thought him the best and
cleverest, as indeed he was one of the kindest of men. Nothing ever
seemed to disturb t