The fat boy pointed to the destination of the pies.
'Wery good,' said Sam, 'stick a bit o' Christmas in 'em.
T'other dish opposite. There; now we look compact and comfortable,
as the father said ven he cut his little boy's head off, to
cure him o' squintin'.'
As Mr. Weller made the comparison, he fell back a step or
two, to give full effect to it, and surveyed the preparations with
the utmost satisfaction.
'Wardle,' said Mr. Pickwick, almost as soon as they were all
seated, 'a glass of wine in honour of this happy occasion!'
'I shall be delighted, my boy,' said Wardle. 'Joe--damn that
boy, he's gone to sleep.'
'No, I ain't, sir,' replied the fat boy, starting up from a remote
corner, where, like the patron saint of fat boys--the immortal
Horner--he had been devouring a Christmas pie, though not
with the coolness and deliberation which characterised that
young gentleman's proceedings.
'Fill Mr. Pickwick's glass.'
'Yes, sir.'
The fat boy filled Mr. Pickwick's glass, and then retired
behind his master's chair, from whence he watched the play of
the knives and forks, and the progress of the choice morsels
from the dishes to the mouths of the company, with a kind of
dark and gloomy joy that was most impressive.
Pages:
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698