that the wery bones melt in your mouth, and there’s no occasion to pick ’em; half a pound of seven and sixpenny green, so precious strong that if you mix it with biling water, it’ll go nigh to blow the lid of the teapot off; a pound and a half of moist sugar that the niggers didn’t work at all at, afore they got it up to sitch a pitch of goodness—oh no! Two half-quartern brans; pound of best fresh; piece of double Glo’ster; and, to wind up all, some of the richest sort you ever lushed!”
Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his extensive pockets, a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while Mr. Dawkins, at the same instant, poured out a wineglassful of raw spirits from the bottle he carried: which the invalid tossed down his throat without a moment’s hesitation.
“Ah!” said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. “You’ll do, Bill; you’ll do now.”
“Do!” exclaimed Mr. Sikes; “I might have been done for, twenty times over, afore you’d have done anything to help me. What do you mean by leaving a man in this state, three weeks and more, you false-hearted wagabond?”
“Only hear him, boys!” said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. “And us come to bring him all these beau-ti-ful things.”
“The things is well enough in their way,” observed Mr. Sikes: a little soothed as he glanced over the table; “but what have you got to say for yourself, why you should leave me here, down in the mouth, health, blunt, and everything else; and take no more notice of me, all this mortal time, than if I was that ’ere dog.—Drive him down, Charley!”
“I never see such a jolly dog as that,” cried Master Bates, doing as he was desired. “Smelling the grub like a old lady a going to market! He’d make his fortun’ on the stage that dog would, and rewive the drayma besides.”