“He must have been a very ingenious young man, that, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, with a slight shudder.

“Just was, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, continuing his occupation of emptying the basket, “and the pies was beautiful. Tongue⁠—, well that’s a wery good thing when it ain’t a woman’s. Bread⁠—knuckle o’ ham, reg’lar picter⁠—cold beef in slices, wery good. What’s in them stone jars, young touch-and-go?”

“Beer in this one,” replied the boy, taking from his shoulder a couple of large stone bottles, fastened together by a leathern strap⁠—“cold punch in t’other.”

“And a wery good notion of a lunch it is, take it altogether,” said Mr. Weller, surveying his arrangement of the repast with great satisfaction. “Now, gen’l’m’n, ‘fall on,’ as the English said to the French when they fixed bagginets.”