“Soles, sir.”

“Soles—ah!—capital fish—all come from London—stage-coach proprietors get up political dinners—carriage of soles—dozens of baskets—cunning fellows. Glass of wine, sir?”

[19]

[19]

“With pleasure,” said Mr. Pickwick, and the stranger took wine, first with him, and then with Mr. Snodgrass, and then with Mr. Tupman, and then with Mr. Winkle, and then with the whole party together, almost as rapidly as he talked.

“Devil of a mess on the staircase, waiter,” said the stranger. “Forms going up—carpenters coming down—lamps, glasses, harps. What’s going forward?”

“Ball, sir,” said the waiter.

“Assembly, eh?”

“No, sir, not Assembly, sir. Ball for the benefit of a charity, sir.”

“Many fine women in this town, do you know, sir?” inquired Mr. Tupman, with great interest.

“Splendid—capital. Kent, sir—everybody knows Kent—apples, cherries, hops, and women. Glass of wine, sir?”

“With great pleasure,” replied Mr. Tupman. The stranger filled, and emptied.

“I should very much like to go,” said Mr. Tupman, resuming the subject of the ball, “very much.”

“Tickets at the bar, sir,” interposed the waiter; “half a guinea each, sir.”

Mr. Tupman again expressed an earnest wish to be present at the festivity, but meeting with no response in the darkened 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 button-hole—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. 

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