Mr. Benjamin Allen was a coarse, stout, thickset young man, with black hair cut rather short, and a white face cut rather long. He was embellished with spectacles, and wore a white neckerchief. Below his single-breasted black surtout, which was buttoned up to his chin, appeared the usual number of pepper-and-salt coloured legs, terminating in a pair of imperfectly polished boots. Although his coat was short in the sleeves, it disclosed no vestige of a linen wristband; and although there was quite enough of his face to admit of the encroachment of a shirt collar, it was not graced by the smallest approach to that appendage. He presented altogether rather a mildewy appearance, and emitted a fragrant odour of full-flavoured Cubas. Mr. Bob Sawyer, who was habited in a coarse blue coat, which, without being either greatcoat or surtout, partook of the nature and qualities of both, had about him that sort of slovenly smartness, and swaggering gait, which is peculiar to young gentlemen who smoke in the streets by day, shout and scream in the same by night, call waiters by their christian names, and do various other acts and deeds of an equally facetious description. He wore a pair of plaid trousers, and a large rough double-breasted waistcoat; and out of doors, carried a thick stick with a big top. He eschewed gloves, and looked, upon the whole, something like a dissipated Robinson Crusoe. Such were the two worthies to whom Mr. Pickwick was introduced, as he took his seat at the breakfast table on Christmas morning. “Splendid morning, gentlemen,” said Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Bob Sawyer slightly nodded his assent to the proposition, and asked Mr. Benjamin Allen for the mustard. “Have you come far this morning, gentlemen?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. “Blue Lion at Muggleton,” briefly responded Mr. Allen. “You should have joined us last night,” said Mr. Pickwick. “So we should,” replied Bob Sawyer, “but the brandy was too good to leave in a hurry: wasn’t it, Ben?” “Certainly,” said Mr. Benjamin Allen; “and the cigars were not bad, or the pork chops either: were they, Bob?” “Decidedly not,” said Bob. And the particular friends resumed their attack upon the breakfast, more freely than before, as if the recollection of last night’s supper had imparted a new relish to the meal. “Peg away, Bob,” said Mr. Allen to his companion, encouragingly. “So I do,” replied Bob Sawyer. And so, to do him justice, he did. “Nothing like dissecting, to give one an appetite,” said Mr. Bob Sawyer, looking round the table. Mr. Pickwick slightly shuddered. “By the bye, Bob,” said Mr. Allen, “have you finished that leg yet?” “Nearly,” replied Sawyer, helping himself to half a fowl as he spoke. “It’s a very muscular one for a child’s.” “Is it?” inquired Mr. Allen, carelessly. “Very,” said Bob Sawyer, with his mouth full.