the bottle. "This proceeding is more absurd than the other."
"I think it would be best to take it in," replied Mr. Ben Allen; "it would serve him right to take it in and keep it, wouldn't it?"
"It would," said Mr. Pickwick: "shall I?"
"I think it the most proper course we could possibly adopt," replied Ben.
This advice quite coinciding with his own opinion, Mr. Pickwick gently let down the window and disengaged the bottle from the stick: upon which the latter was drawn up, and Mr. Bob Sawyer was heard to laugh heartily.
"What a merry dog it is!" said Mr. Pickwick, looking round at his companion with the bottle in his hand.
"He is," said Mr. Allen.
"You cannot possibly be angry with him," remarked Mr. Pickwick.
"Quite out of the question," observed Benjamin Allen.
During this short interchange of sentiments, Mr. 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
