The relation of this affecting incident of private life brought master and man to Mr. Perker’s chambers. Lowten, holding the door half open, was in conversation with a rustily-clad, miserable-looking man, in boots without toes and gloves without fingers. There were traces of privation and suffering—almost of despair—in his lank and care-worn countenance; he felt his poverty, for he shrank to the dark side of the staircase as Mr. Pickwick approached.
‘It’s very unfortunate,’ said the stranger, with a sigh.
‘Very,’ said Lowten, scribbling his name on the doorpost with his pen, and rubbing it out again with the feather. ‘Will you leave a message for him?’
‘When do you think he’ll be back?’ inquired the stranger.
‘Quite uncertain,’ replied Lowten, winking at Mr. Pickwick, as the stranger c
