Arthur Clennam stood in the street, waiting to ask some passer-by what
place that was. He suffered a few people to pass him in whose face there
was no encouragement to make the inquiry, and still stood pausing in the
street, when an old man came up and turned into the courtyard.
He stooped a good deal, and plodded along in a slow pre-occupied manner,
which made the bustling London thoroughfares no very safe resort for
him. He was dirtily and meanly dressed, in a threadbare coat, once blue,
reaching to his ankles and buttoned to his chin, where it vanished in
the pale ghost of a velvet collar. A piece of red cloth with which that
phantom had been stiffened in its lifetime was now laid bare, and poked
itself up, at the back of the old man's neck, into a confusion of grey
hair and rusty stock and buckle which altogether nearly poked his
hat off.
A greasy hat it was, and a napless; impending over his eyes,
cracked and crumpled at the brim, and with a wisp of pocket-handkerchief
dangling out below it. His trousers were so long and loose, and his
shoes so clumsy and large, that he shuffled like an elephant; though how
much of this was gait, and how much trailing cloth and leather, no one
could have told. Under one arm he carried a limp and worn-out case,
containing some wind instrument; in the same hand he had a pennyworth
of snuff in a little packet of whitey-brown paper, from which he slowly
comforted his poor blue old nose with a lengthened-out pinch, as Arthur
Clennam looked at him. To this old man crossing the court-yard, he
preferred his inquiry, touching him on the shoulder. The old man stopped
and looked round, with the expression in his weak grey eyes of one whose
thoughts had been far off, and who was a little dull of hearing also.
'Pray, sir,' said Arthur, repeating his question, 'what is this place?'
'Ay! This place?' returned the old man, staying his pinch of snuff on
its road, and pointing at the place without looking at it. 'This is the
Marshalsea, sir.' 'The debtors' prison?'
'Sir,' said the old man, with the air of deeming it not quite necessary
to insist upon that designation, 'the debtors' prison.' He turned himself about, and went on. 'I beg your pardon,' said Arthur, stopping him once more, 'but will you
allow me to ask you another question? Can any one go in here?'
'Any one can go IN,' replied the old man; plainly adding by the
significance of his emphasis, 'but it is not every one who can go out.' 'Pardon me once more. Are you familiar with the place?' 'Sir,' returned the old man, squeezing his little packet of snuff in his
hand, and turning upon his interrogator as if such questions hurt him.
'I am.' 'I beg you to excuse me. I am not impertinently curious, but have a good
object. Do you know the name of Dorrit here?'