Among this good company I should have felt myself, even if I hadn’t robbed the pantry, in a false position.  Not because I was squeezed in at an acute angle of the table-cloth, with the table in my chest, and the Pumblechookian elbow in my eye, nor because I was not allowed to speak (I didn’t want to speak), nor because I was regaled with the scaly tips of the drumsticks of the fowls, and with those obscure corners of pork of which the pig, when living, had had the least reason to be vain.  No; I should not have minded that, if they would only have left me alone.  But they wouldn’t leave me alone.  They seemed to think the opportunity lost, if they failed to point the conversation at me, every now and then, and stick the point into me.  I might have been an unfortunate little bull in a Spanish arena, I got so smartingly touched up by these moral goads.

It began the moment we sat down to dinner.  Mr. Wopsle said grace with theatrical declamation — as it now appears to me, something like a religious cross of the Ghost in Hamlet with Richard the Third — and ended with the very proper aspiration that we might be truly grateful.  Upon which my sister fixed me with her eye, and said, in a low reproachful voice, “Do you hear that?  Be grateful.”

“Especially,” said Mr. Pumblechook, “be grateful, boy, to them which brought you up by hand.”

Mrs. Hubble shook her head, and contemplating me with a mournful presentiment that I should come to no good, asked, “Why is it that the young are never grateful?” This moral mystery seemed too much for the company until Mr. Hubble tersely solved it by saying, “Naterally wicious.”  Everybody then murmured “True!” and looked at me in a particularly unpleasant and personal manner.

Joe’s station and influence were something feebler (if possible) when there was company, than when there was none.  But he always aided and comforted me when he could, in some way of his own, and he always did so at dinner-time by giving me gravy, if there were any.  There being plenty of gravy to-day, Joe spooned into my plate, at this point, about half a pint.

A little later on in the dinner, Mr. Wopsle reviewed the sermon with some severity, and intimated — in the usual hypothetical case of the Church being “thrown open” — what kind of sermon he would have given them.  After favouring them with some heads of that discourse, he remarked that he considered the subject of the day’s homily, ill-chosen; which was the less excusable, he added, when there were so many subjects “going about.”

“True again,” said Uncle Pumblechook.  “You’ve hit it, sir!  Plenty of subjects going about, for them that know how to put salt upon their tails.  That’s what’s wanted.  A man needn’t go far to find a subject, if he’s ready with his salt-box.”  Mr. Pumblechook added, after a short interval of reflection, “Look at Pork alone.  There’s a subject!  If you want a subject, look at Pork!”