He wore a pair of plaid trousers,
and a large, rough, double-breasted waistcoat; out of doors, he
carried a thick stick with a big top. He eschewed gloves, and
looked, upon the whole, something like a dissipated Robinson Crusoe.
Such were the two worthies to whom Mr. Pickwick was
introduced, as he took his seat at the breakfast-table on
Christmas morning.
'Splendid morning, gentlemen,' said Mr. Pickwick.
Mr. Bob Sawyer slightly nodded his assent to the proposition,
and asked Mr. Benjamin Allen for the mustard.
'Have you come far this morning, gentlemen?' inquired
Mr. Pickwick.
'Blue Lion at Muggleton,' briefly responded Mr. Allen.
'You should have joined us last night,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'So we should,' replied Bob Sawyer, 'but the brandy was too
good to leave in a hurry; wasn't it, Ben?'
'Certainly,' said Mr. Benjamin Allen; 'and the cigars were not
bad, or the pork-chops either; were they, Bob?'
'Decidedly not,' said Bob. The particular friends resumed their
attack upon the breakfast, more freely than before, as if the
recollection of last night's supper had imparted a new relish to
the meal.
'Peg away, Bob,' said Mr.
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