eye of Mr. Snodgrass, or the abstracted gaze of Mr. Pickwick, he applied himself with great interest to the port wine and dessert, which had just been placed on the table. The waiter withdrew, and the party were left to enjoy the cosy couple of hours succeeding dinner.
"Beg your pardon, sir," said the stranger, "bottle stands—pass it round—way of the sun—through the buttonhole—no heeltaps," and he emptied his glass, which he had filled about two minutes before, and poured out another, with the air of a man who was used to it
The wine was passed, and a fresh supply ordered. The visitor talked, the Pickwickians listened. Mr. Tupman felt every moment more disposed for the ball. Mr. Pickwick's countenance glowed with an expression of universal philanthropy; and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass fell fast asleep.
"They're beginning up-stairs," said the stranger—"hear the company—fiddles tuning now the harp—there they go." The various sounds which found their way down-stairs announced the commencement of the first quadrille.
"How I should like to go," said Mr. Tupman, again.
"So should I," said the stranger,—" confounded luggage—heavy smacks—nothing to go in—odd, ain't it?"
Now general benevolence was one of the leading features of the Pickwickian theory, and no one was more remarkable for the zealous manner in which he observed so noble a principle than Mr. Tracy Tupman. The number of instances, recorded on the Transactions of the Society, in which that excellent man referred objects of charity to the houses of other members for left-off garments or pecuniary relief is almost incredible.
"I should be very happy to lend you a change of apparel for the purpose," said Mr. Tracy Tupman, " but you are rather slim, and I am—"
"Rather fat—grown up Bacchus—cut the leaves—dismounted from the tub, and adopted kersey, eh?—not double distilled, but double milled—ha! ha! pass the wine."
