“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-drinking brandy neat, vile the t’other one⁠—him in the barnacles⁠—has got a barrel o’ oysters atween his knees, which 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.”