“That’s right,” said Mr. John Smauker, putting up the fox’s head and elevating his own; “I’ll stand by you.”
By this time they had reached a small greengrocer’s shop, which Mr. John Smauker entered, followed by Sam: who, the moment he got behind him, relapsed into a series of the very broadest and most unmitigated grins, and manifested other demonstrations of being in a highly enviable state of inward merriment.
Crossing the greengrocer’s shop, and putting their hats on the stairs in the little passage behind it, they walked into a small parlour; and here the full splendour of the scene burst upon Mr. Weller’s view.
A couple of tables were put together in the middle of the parlour, covered with three or four cloths of different ages and dates of washing, arranged to look as much like one as the circumstances of the case would allow. Upon these were laid knives and forks for six or eight people. Some of the knife handles were green, others red, and a few yellow; and as all the forks were black, the combination of colours was exceedingly striking. Plates for a corresponding number of guests were warming behind the fender; and the guests themselves were warming before it: the chief and most important of whom appeared to be a stoutish gentleman in a bright crimson coat with long tails, vividly red breeches, and a cocked hat, who was standing with his back to the fire and had apparently just entered, for besides retaining his cocked hat on his head, he carried in his hand a high stick, such as gentlemen of his profession usually elevate in a sloping position over the roofs of carriages.
“Smauker, my lad, your fin,” said the gentleman with the cocked hat.
Mr. Smauker dovetailed the top joint of his right-hand little finger into that of the gentleman with the cocked hat and said he was charmed to see him looking so well.
“Well, they tell me I am looking pretty blooming,” said the man with the cocked hat, “and it’s a wonder, too. I’ve been following our old woman about, two hours a day, for the last fortnight; and if a constant contemplation of the manner in which she hooks-and-eyes that infernal old lavender-coloured gown of hers behind, isn’t enough to throw anybody into a low state of despondency for life, stop my quarter’s salary.”
At this, the assembled selections laughed very heartily; and one gentleman in a yellow waistcoat, with a coach-trimming border, whispered a neighbour in green-foil smalls, that Tuckle was in spirits to-night.
“By-the-bye,” said Mr. Tuckle, “Smauker, my boy, you—” The remainder of the sentence was forwarded into Mr. John Smauker’s ear, by whisper.