Little Dorrit Vol.1 f.012 recto
[???] his [???] thick moustache shewed them at all, and a quantity of [??]dry hair, of no [???????? able] definable color, in its [shaggy ??????????????] shaggy state, but shot with red. The hand with which he held the grating (seamed all over the back with ugly scratches newly healed), was unusually small and plump; would have been unusually white but for the prison grime.
The other man was lying on the stone floor, covered with a coarse brown coat.
“Get up, pig!” growled the first. “Don’t sleep when I am hungry.”
“It’s all one, master,” said the pig, in a submissive manner, and not without cheerfulness; “I can wake when I will, I can sleep when I will. It’s all the same.”
As he said it, he rose, shook himself, scratched himself, tied his brown coat loosely round his neck by the arms, as the manner of the common people is in that country(he had previously used it as a coverlet), and sat down upon the pavement yawning, with his back against the wall opposite to the grating.
“Say what the hour is,” grumbled the first man.
“The mid-day bells will ring—in forty minutes.” When he made the little pause, he had looked round the prison-room, as if for certain information.
“You are a clock. How is it that you always know?”
“How can I say? I always know what the hour is, and where I am. I was brought in here at night, and out of a boat, but I know where I am. See here! Marseilles harbour;” on his knees on the pavement, mapping it all out with a swarthy forefinger; “Toulon (where the galleys are), Spain over there, Algiers over there. Creeping away to the left here, Nice. Round by the Cornice to Genoa. Genoa Mole and Harbour. Quarantine Ground. City there; terrace gardens blushing with the bella donna. Here, Porto Fino. Stand out for Leghorn. Out again for Civita Vecchia, so away to—hey! there’s no room for Naples;” he had got to the wall by this time; “but it’s all one; it’s in there!”
He remained on his knees, looking up at his fellow-prisoner with a lively look for a prison. A sunburnt, quick, lithe, little man, though rather thickset. Earrings in his brown ears, white teeth lighting up his grotesque brown face, intensely black hair clustering about his brown throat, a ragged red shirt open at his brown breast. Loose, seaman-like trousers, decent shoes, a long red cap, a red sash round his waist, and a knife in it.
“Judge if I come back from Naples as I went! See here, my master! Civita Vecchia, Leghorn, Porto Fino, Genoa, Cornice, Off Nice (which is in there), Marseilles, you and me. The apartment of the jailer and his keys is where I put this thumb; and here at my wrist they keep the national razor in its case—the guillotine locked up.”
The other man spat suddenly on the pavement, and gurgled in his throat.
Some lock below gurgled in its throat immediately afterwards, and then a door crashed. Slow steps began ascending the stairs; the prattle of a sweet little voice mingled with the noise they made; and the prison-keeper appeared carrying his daughter, three or four years old, and a basket.
“How goes the world this forenoon, gentlemen? My little one, you see, going round with me to have a peep at her
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