I had no difficulty in finding Matthew. He sat in a bare and wretched room where, on this cold day of January, with a sharp frost outside, there was no fire in the grate, no curtains to the rattling windows, no carpet, no beds, nothing but the hard planks to lie upon when night fell and the poor debtors could huddle together for such warmth as the half-starved human body could afford. There was a small bench--I suppose it found its way there by accident. Matthew sat on that, his feet under the bench, his body bent, his hands clasped. I called him by name. 'Matthew!' He looked up. He knew me. He murmured something, I know not what, but it was unfriendly. To the last, he remained unfriendly. I opened my bundle. I took out my provisions and the bottle of beer. He ate and drank enormously, but without a word of thanks. Then I took out the stockings and the shoes and put them on: tied the kerchief round his neck; laid the thick blanket on the floor, laid him on it and rolled it round him. He was quite unresisting; he was without gratitude; he cursed, but mechanically, and as if he could say nothing else. Instead of getting warmer, his teeth chattered and he shivered still. I spoke to him again. 'Is there anything more I can do for you, Matthew?' 'You can go away,' he said, articulate at last. 'You can go away and leave me. The sight of you makes me mad.' I have since thought that this might be a sign of repentance. 'I will go away directly. Is there anything more I can do for you?' 'I want,' he said, lifting his head and looking round, 'I want to have my turn. The last time I lost. If you will find the man who won my coat and will send him here, I shall be warm directly, and I can have another turn. I've lost a good deal, somehow. The luck's been against me, always against me.' He lay back and shivered again, though now he was wrapped up in the blanket with a warm coat on over his old rags. He should have been quite warm. I felt his forehead; it was hot and dry. 'Matthew,' I said, 'I think you are in some kind of fever. Shall I bring a doctor for you?' There are generally about a thousand people in this barrack, men, women, and children, yet they have not so much as an apothecary in the place. Outside, there is the wise woman who knows the herbs and professes to cure all the diseases that flesh is heir to with a bundle of camomile, feverfew, or vervain. She commonly lives in a court. In Fleet Street there is the apothecary who has a shop full of drugs. He despises the wise woman, yet is not so much wiser than she is, except in his own conceit. There is the tooth-drawer; and there is the bone-setter; but for physicians there are none. His face, now that the pains of cold and hunger were appeased, looked gray, and what the old women call drawn. It is a bad sign had I known it, but I did not. I thought he was suffering from cold and hunger first, and from some kind of fever brought on by privation.