They helped
each other after their own manner in these struggles, and in all others;
but they worked as hopelessly and sadly as a gang of convicts in a penal
settlement.
Often at night when Mark and Martin were alone, and lying down to sleep,
they spoke of home, familiar places, houses, roads, and people whom they
knew; sometimes in the lively hope of seeing them again, and sometimes
with a sorrowful tranquillity, as if that hope were dead. It was a
source of great amazement to Mark Tapley to find, pervading all these
conversations, a singular alteration in Martin.
'I don't know what to make of him,' he thought one night, 'he ain't what
I supposed. He don't think of himself half as much. I'll try him again.
Asleep, sir?'
'No, Mark.'
'Thinking of home, sir?'
'Yes, Mark.'
'So was I, sir. I was wondering how Mr Pinch and Mr Pecksniff gets on
now.'
'Poor Tom!' said Martin, thoughtfully.
'Weak-minded man, sir,' observed Mr Tapley. 'Plays the organ for
nothing, sir. Takes no care of himself?'
'I wish he took a little more, indeed,' said Martin. 'Though I don't
know why I should.
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