The fat boy pointed to the destination of the pies.
“Wery good,” said Sam, “stick a bit o’ Christmas in ’em. T’other dish opposite. There; now ve look compact and comfortable, as the father said ven he cut his little boy’s head off, to cure him o’ squintin’.”
As Mr. Weller made the comparison, he fell back a step or two, to give full effect to it, and surveyed the preparations with the utmost satisfaction.
“Wardle,” said Mr. Pickwick, almost as soon as they were all seated, “a glass of wine, in honour of this happy occasion!”
“I shall be delighted, my boy,” said Wardle. “Joe—damn that boy, he’s gone to sleep.”
“No, I ain’t, Sir,” replied the fat boy, starting up from a remote corner, where, like the patron saint of fat boys—the immortal Horner—he had been devouring a Christmas pie, though not with the coolness and deliberation which characterised that young gentleman’s proceedings.
“Fill Mr. Pickwick’s glass.”
“Yes, sir.”
The fat boy filled Mr. Pickwick’s glass, and then retired behind his master’s chair, from whence he watched the play of the knives and forks, and the progress of the choice morsels, from the dishes, to the mouths of the company, with a kind of dark and gloomy joy that was most impressive.
“God bless you, old fellow,” said Mr. Pickwick.