"Not in season!" says I. "No," says he,
"fruits is in, cats is out." "Why, what do you mean?" says I.
"Mean!" says he. "That I'll never be a party to the combination
o' the butchers, to keep up the price o' meat," says he. "Mr.
Weller," says he, a-squeezing my hand wery hard, and vispering
in my ear--"don't mention this here agin--but it's the seasonin'
as does it. They're all made o' them noble animals," says he,
a-pointin' to a wery nice little tabby kitten, "and I seasons 'em
for beefsteak, weal or kidney, 'cording to the demand. And more
than that," says he, "I can make a weal a beef-steak, or a beef-
steak a kidney, or any one on 'em a mutton, at a minute's notice,
just as the market changes, and appetites wary!"'
'He must have been a very ingenious young man, that, Sam,'
said Mr. Pickwick, with a slight shudder.
'Just was, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, continuing his occupation of
emptying the basket, 'and the pies was beautiful. Tongue--, well
that's a wery good thing when it ain't a woman's. Bread--
knuckle o' ham, reg'lar picter--cold beef in slices, wery good.
What's in them stone jars, young touch-and-go?'
'Beer in this one,' replied the boy, taking from his shoulder a
couple of large stone bottles, fastened together by a leathern
strap--'cold punch in t'other.
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