walls.

The turnkey had strong private opinions as to what would become of
poor Tip, and had even gone so far with the view of averting their
fulfilment, as to sound Tip in reference to the expediency of
running away and going to serve his country. But Tip had thanked
him, and said he didn't seem to care for his country.

'Well, my dear,' said the turnkey, 'something ought to be done with
him. Suppose I try and get him into the law?'

'That would be so good of you, Bob!'

The turnkey had now two points to put to the professional gentlemen
as they passed in and out. He put this second one so perseveringly
that a stool and twelve shillings a week were at last found for Tip
in the office of an attorney in a great National Palladium called
the Palace Court; at that time one of a considerable list of
everlasting bulwarks to the dignity and safety of Albion, whose
places know them no more.

Tip languished in Clifford's Inns for six months, and at the
expiration of that term sauntered back one evening with his hands
in his pockets, and incidentally observed to his sister that he was
not going back again.

'Not going back again?' said the poor little anxious Child of the
Marshalsea, always calculating and planning for Tip, in the front
rank of her charges.