a fire piled half-way up the chimney, plates warning before it, wax candles gleaming everywhere, and a table spread for three with silver and glass enough for thirty—John Westlock: not the old John of Pecksniff's, but a proper gentleman: looking another and a grander person, with the consciousness of being his own master and having money in the bank: and yet in some respects the old John too, for he seized Tom Pinch by both his hands the instant he appeared, and fairly hugged him, in his cordial welcome.
"And this," said John, "is Mr. Chuzzlewit. I am very glad to see him!"—John had an off-hand manner of his own; so they shook hands warmly, and were friends in no time.
"Stand off a moment, Tom," cried the old pupil, laying one hand on each of Mr. Pinch's shoulders, and holding him out at arm's length. "Let me look at you! Just the same! Not a bit changed!"
"Why, it's not so very long ago, you know," said Tom Pinch, "after all."
"It seems an age to me," cried John; "and so it ought to seem to you, you dog." And then he pushed Tom down into the easiest chair, and clapped him on the back so heartily, and so like his old self in their old bed-room at old Pecksniff's, that it was a toss-up with Tom Pinch whether he should laugh or cry. Laughter won it; and they all three laughed together.
"I have ordered everything for dinner, that we used to say we'd have, Tom," observed John Westlock.
"No!" said Tom Pinch, "Have you?"
"Everything. Don't laugh, if you can help it, before the waiters. I couldn't when I was ordering it. It's like a dream."
John was wrong there, because nobody ever dreamed such soup as was put upon the table directly afterwards; or such fish; or such side-dishes; or such a top and bottom; or such a course of birds and sweets; or in short anything approaching the reality of that entertainment at ten-and-six pence a head, exclusive of wines. As to them, the man who can dream such iced champagne, such claret, port, or sherry, had better go to bed and stop there.
But perhaps the finest feature of the banquet was, that nobody was half so much amazed by everything as John himself, who, in his high delight, was constantly bursting into fits of laughter, and then endeavouring to appear preternaturally solemn, lest the waiters should conceive he wasn't used to it. Some of the things they brought him to carve, were such outrageous practical jokes, though, that it was impossible to stand it; and when Tom Pinch insisted, in spite of the deferential advice of an attendant, not only on breaking down the outer wall of a raised pie with a tablespoon, but on trying to eat it afterwards, John lost all dignity, and sat behind the gorgeous dish-cover at the head of the table, roaring to that extent that he was audible in the kitchen. Nor had he the least objection to laugh at himself, as he demonstrated when they had all three gathered round the fire, and the dessert was on the table; at which period, the head waiter inquired with respectful solicitude whether that port, being a light and tawny wine,
