He was in the prime of life, but very bald--had been in the army and the coal trade--wore very stiff collars and prodigiously long wristbands--seldom laughed, but talked with remarkable glibness, and was never known to lose his temper under the most aggravating circumstances of prison existence.
He abstained from interfering with me and my studies, until it was reported in our society, that in the sixth print of my series, Gentleman Jones, highly caricatured, was to form one of the principal figures.

He then appealed to me personally and publicly, on the racket-ground, in the following terms: "Sir," said he, with his usual politeness and his unwavering smile, "you will greatly oblige me by not caricaturing my personal peculiarities.

I am so unfortunate as not to possess a sense of humor; and if you did my likeness, I am afraid I should not see the joke of it." "Sir," I returned, with my customary impudence, "it is not of the slightest importance whether _you_ see the joke of it or not.

The public will--and that is enough for me." With that civil speech, I turned on my heel; and the prisoners near all burst out laughing.

Gentleman Jones, not in the least altered or ruffled, smoothed down his wristbands, smiled, and walked away.
The same evening I was in my room alone, designing the new print, when there came a knock at the door, and Gentleman Jones walked in.