the hard-headed man with the pippin-face; "there an't indeed, sir — I'm sure there an't, sir." The hard-headed man looked triumphantly round, as if he had been very much contradicted by somebody, but had got the better of him at last.
"There an't a better spot o' ground in all Kent," said the hard-headed man again, after a pause.
"'Cept Mullins's Meadows," observed the fat man solemnly.
"Mullins's Meadows!" ejaculated the other, with profound contempt.
"Ah, Mullins's Meadows," repeated the fat man.
"Reg'lar good land that," interposed another fat man.
"And so it is, sure-ly," said a third fat man.
"Everybody knows that," said the corpulent host.
The hard-headed man looked dubiously round, but finding himself in a minority, assumed a compassionate air, and said no more.
"What are they talking about?" inquired the old lady of one of her grand-daughters, in a very audible voice; for, like many deaf people, she never seemed to calculate on the possibility of other persons hearing what she said herself.
"About the land, grandma."
"What about the land? — Nothing the matter, is there?"
"No, no. Mr. Miller was saying our land was better than Mullins's Meadows."
"How should he know anything about it?" inquired the old lady indignantly. "Miller's a conceited coxcomb, and you may tell him I said so." Saying which, the old lady, quite unconscious that she had spoken above a whisper, drew herself up, and looked carving-knives at the hard-headed delinquent.
"Come, come," said the bustling host, with a natural anxiety to change the conversation, — "What say you to a rubber, Mr. Pickwick?"
"I should like it of all things," replied that gentleman; "but pray don't make up one on my account."
"Oh, I assure you, mother's very fond of a rubber," said Mr. Wardle; "an't you, mother?"
