n and potatoes
and beer to an acquaintance in the poor side of the prison; had paid an
outstanding bill at the tavern where he had changed his five-pound
note; had had a dinner with two friends there, to whom he lost sundry
half-crowns at cards afterwards; so that the night left him as poor as
the morning had found him.

The publisher and the two gentlemen had had some talk together after
quitting Shandon, and Warrington reiterated to Bungay what he had said
to his rival, Bacon, viz., that Pen was a high fellow, of great genius,
and what was more, well with the great world, and related to "no end"
of the peerage. Bungay replied that he should be happy to have dealings
with Mr. Pendennis, and hoped to have the pleasure of seeing both gents
to cut mutton with him before long, and so, with mutual politeness and
protestations, they parted.

"It is hard to see such a man as Shandon," Pen said, musing, and talking
that night over the sight which he had witnessed, "of accomplishments so
multifarious, and of such an undoubted talent and humour, an inmate of
a gaol for half his time, and a bookseller's hanger-on when out of
prison."

"I am a bookseller's hanger-on--you are going to try your paces as a
hack," Warrington said with a laugh. "We are all hacks upon some road or
other. I would rather be myself, than Paley our neighbour in chambers:
who has as much enjoyment of his life as a mole. A deuced deal of
undeserved compassion has been thrown away upon what you call your
bookseller's drudge."

"Much solitary pipes and ale make a cynic of you," said Pen "You are a
Diogenes by a beer-barrel, Warrington. No man shall tell me that a
man of genius, as Shandon is, ought to be driven by such a vulgar
slave-driver, as yonder Mr. Bungay, whom we have just left, who fattens
on the profits of the other's brains, and enriches himself out of his
journeyman's labour. It makes me indignant to see a gentleman the serf
of such a creature as that, of a man who can't speak the language that
he lives by, who is not fit to black Shandon's boots."

"So you have begun already to gird at the publishers, and to take your
side amongst our order. Bravo, Pen, my be boy!" Warrington answered,
laughing still. "What have you got to say against Bungay's relations
with Shandon? Was it the publisher, think you, who sent the author to
prison? Is it Bungay who is tippling away the five-pound note which we
saw just now, or Shandon?"

"Misfortune drives a