Pickwick
had, in an abstracted mood, uncorked the bottle.
'What is it?' inquired Ben Allen carelessly.
'I don't know,' replied Mr. Pickwick, with equal carelessness.
'It smells, I think, like milk-punch.'
'Oh, indeed?' said Ben.
'I THINK so,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick, very properly guarding
himself against the possibility of stating an untruth; 'mind, I
could not undertake to say certainly, without tasting it.'
'You had better do so,' said Ben; 'we may as well know what
it is.'
'Do you think so?' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'Well; if you are
curious to know, of course I have no objection.'
Ever willing to sacrifice his own feelings to the wishes of his
friend, Mr. Pickwick at once took a pretty long taste.
'What is it?' inquired Ben Allen, interrupting him with some
impatience.
'Curious,' said Mr. Pickwick, smacking his lips, 'I hardly
know, now. Oh, yes!' said Mr. Pickwick, after a second taste.
'It IS punch.'
Mr. Ben Allen looked at Mr. Pickwick; Mr. Pickwick looked
at Mr. Ben Allen; Mr. Ben Allen smiled; Mr. Pickwick did not.
'It would serve him right,' said the last-named gentleman, with
some severity--'it would serve him right to drink it every drop.
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