This was coming to the point, and I thought it a sensible way of expressing himself.

“To think,” said Mr. Pumblechook, after snorting admiration at me for some moments, “that I should have been the humble instrument of leading up to this, is a proud reward.”

I begged Mr. Pumblechook to remember that nothing was to be ever said or hinted, on that point.

“My dear young friend,” said Mr. Pumblechook, “if you will allow me to call you so—­”

I murmured “Certainly,” and Mr. Pumblechook took me by both hands again, and communicated a movement to his waistcoat, which had an emotional appearance, though it was rather low down, “My dear young friend, rely upon my doing my little all in your absence, by keeping the fact before the mind of Joseph. — Joseph!” said Mr. Pumblechook, in the way of a compassionate adjuration.  “Joseph!!  Joseph!!!” Thereupon he shook his head and tapped it, expressing his sense of deficiency in Joseph.

“But my dear young friend,” said Mr. Pumblechook, “you must be hungry, you must be exhausted.  Be seated.  Here is a chicken had round from the Boar, here is a tongue had round from the Boar, here’s one or two little things had round from the Boar, that I hope you may not despise.  But do I,” said Mr. Pumblechook, getting up again the moment after he had sat down, “see afore me, him as I ever sported with in his times of happy infancy?  And may I — may I — ?”

This May I, meant might he shake hands?  I consented, and he was fervent, and then sat down again.

“Here is wine,” said Mr. Pumblechook.  “Let us drink, Thanks to Fortune, and may she ever pick out her favourites with equal judgment!  And yet I cannot,” said Mr. Pumblechook, getting up again, “see afore me One — and likewise drink to One — without again expressing — May I — may I — ?”

I said he might, and he shook hands with me again, and emptied his glass and turned it upside down.  I did the same; and if I had turned myself upside down before drinking, the wine could not have gone more direct to my head.

Mr. Pumblechook helped me to the liver wing, and to the best slice of tongue (none of those out-of-the-way No Thoroughfares of Pork now), and took, comparatively speaking, no care of himself at all.  “Ah! poultry, poultry!  You little thought,” said Mr. Pumblechook, apostrophizing the fowl in the dish, “when you was a young fledgling, what was in store for you.  You little thought you was to be refreshment beneath this humble roof for one as — Call it a weakness, if you will,” said Mr. Pumblechook, getting up again, “but may I? may I — ?”

It began to be unnecessary to repeat the form of saying he might, so he did it at once.  How he ever did it so often without wounding himself with my knife, I don’t know.

“And your sister,” he resumed, after a little steady eating, “which had the honour of bringing you up by hand!  It’s a sad picter, to reflect that she’s no longer equal to fully understanding the honour.  May—­”