“Ah, that’s just the wery thing, Sir,” rejoined Sam, “ they don’t mind it; it’s a reg’lar holiday to them⁠—all porter and skittles. It’s the t’other vuns as gets done over vith this sort o’ thing; them downhearted fellers as can’t svig avay at the beer, nor play at skittles neither; them as vould pay if they could, and gets low by being boxed up. I’ll tell you wot it is, sir; them as is always a-idlin’ in public-houses it don’t damage at all, and them as is alvays a-workin’ wen they can, it damages too much. ‘It’s unekal,’ as my father used to say wen his grog worn’t made half-and-half: ‘it’s unekal, and that’s the fault on it.’ ”

“I think you’re right, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, after a few moments’ reflection, “quite right.”