The dinner was now fixed for a certain day, and Squire Manifold felt himself in high spirits as often as he could recollect the circumstance—which, indeed, was but rarely, the worthy epicure's memory having nearly abandoned him. Topertoe, of the gout, and he were old acquaintances and companions, and had spent many a merry night together—both, as the proverb has it, being tarred with the same stick. Topertoe was as great a glutton as the other, but without his desperate voracity in food, whilst in drink he equalled if he did not surpass him. Manifold would have forgotten every thing about the dinner had he not from time to time been reminded of it by his companion.
“Manifold, we will have a great day on Thursday.”
“Great!” exclaimed Manifold, who in addition to his other stupidities, was as deaf as a post; “great—eh? What size will it be?”
“What size will it be? Why, confound it, man, don't you know what I'm saying?”
“No, I don't—yes, I do—you are talking about something great. O, I know now—your toe you mean—where the gout lies. They say, it begins at the great toe, and goes up to the stomach. I suppose Alexander the Great was gouty and got his name from that.”
“I'm talking of the great dinner we're I to have on Thursday,” shouted Topertoe. “We'll have a splendid feed then, my famous old trencherman, and I'll take care that Doctor Doolittle shall not stint you.”
“There won't be any toast and water—eh?”
“Devil a mouthful; and we are to have the celebrated Cooke, the Pythagorean.”
“Ay, but is he a good cook?”
“He's the celebrated Pythagorean, I tell you.”