“Oh, a surgeon, eh?” said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.
“Just that, sir,” replied Sam. “These here ones as is below, though, ain’t reg’lar thorough-bred Sawbones; they’re only in trainin’.”
“In other words they’re medical students, I suppose?” said Mr. Pickwick.
Sam Weller nodded assent.
“I am glad of it,” said Mr. Pickwick, casting his nightcap energetically on the counterpane. “They are fine fellows; very fine fellows; with judgments matured by observation and reflection; tastes refined by reading and study. I am very glad of it.”
“They’re a smokin’ cigars by the kitchen fire,” said Sam.
“Ah!” observed Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his hands, “overflowing with kindly feelings and animal spirits. Just what I like to see.”
“And one on ’em,” said Sam, not noticing his master’s interruption, “one on ’em’s got his legs on the table, and is a drinkin’ brandy neat, vile the tother one—him in the barnacles—has got a barrel o’ oysters atween his knees, wich he’s a openin’ like steam, and as fast as he eats ’em, he takes a aim vith the shells at young dropsy, who’s a sittin’ down fast asleep, in the chimbley corner.”
“Eccentricities of genius, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. “You may retire.”
Sam did retire accordingly; Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of the quarter of an hour, went down to breakfast.