“That’s right--look sharp. Now the tongue--now the pigeon pie. Take care of the veal and ham--mind the lobsters--take the salad out of the cloth--give me the dressing.” The various dishes were placed in everybody’s hands and on everybody’s knees. “Now, ain’t this capital?” inquired Mr. Wardle. “Capital!” said Mr. Winkle, who was carving a fowl on the box. Everybody was eating and talking at the same time, and they felt that they had always known each other. All except Joe, who preferred a nap to conversation. “Very extraordinary boy, that,” said Mr. Pickwick. “Does he always sleep that way?” “Sleep!” said the old gentleman, “he’s always asleep. Goes on errands fast asleep, and snores as he waits at the table.” “How very odd,” said Mr. Pickwick. “Ah! odd indeed,” returned the old gentleman; “I’m proud of that boy--wouldn’t part with him on any account--he’s a natural curiosity! Here, Joe--Joe--take these things away, and open another bottle--d’ye hear?” The fat boy rose, opened his eyes, swallowed the huge piece of pie he had been in the act of masticating when he last fell asleep, and slowly obeyed his master’s orders--gloating languidly over the remains of the feast, as he removed the plates, and deposited them in the hamper. The fresh bottle was produced, and speedily emptied: the hamper was made fast in its old place--the fat boy once more mounted the box--the spectacles and pocket-glass were again adjusted--and the evolutions of the military recommenced. There was a great fizzing and banging of guns, and starting of ladies--and then a mine was sprung, to the gratification of everybody--and when the mine had gone off, the military and the company followed its example, and went off too. “Now, mind,” said the old gentleman, as he shook hands with Mr. Pickwick at the conclusion of a conversation which had been carried on at intervals, during the conclusion of the proceedings--“we shall see you all to-morrow.” “Most certainly,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “You have got the address?” “Manor Farm, Dingley Dell,” said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his pocket-book. “That’s it,” said the old gentleman. “I don’t let you off, mind, under a week; and undertake that you shall see everything worth seeing. If you’ve come down for a country life, come to me, and I’ll give you plenty of it. Joe--he’s gone to sleep again--Joe, help Tom put in the horses.” The horses were put in--the driver mounted--the fat boy clambered up by his side--farewells were exchanged--and the carriage rattled off. As the Pickwickians turned round to take a last glimpse of it, the setting sun cast a rich glow on the faces of their entertainers, and fell upon the form of the fat boy. His head was sunk upon his bosom; and he slumbered again. OLIVER TWIST VIII OLIVER TWIST