Mr. Tupman again expressed an earnest wish to be present at the festivity; but meeting with no response in the darkened eye of Mr. Snodgrass, or the abstracted gaze of Mr. Pickwick, he applied himself with great interest to the port wine and dessert, which had just been placed on the table. The waiter withdrew, and the party were left to enjoy the cosy couple of hours succeeding dinner.

“Beg your pardon, sir,” said the stranger, “bottle stands⁠—pass it round⁠—way of the sun⁠—through the buttonhole⁠—no heeltaps,” and he emptied his glass, which he had filled about two minutes before, and poured out another, with the air of a man who was used to it.