“Thank you,” said I, shortly, “but I don’t eat watercresses.”

“You don’t eat ’em,” returned Mr. Pumblechook, sighing and nodding his head several times, as if he might have expected that, and as if abstinence from watercresses were consistent with my downfall.  “True.  The simple fruits of the earth.  No.  You needn’t bring any, William.”

I went on with my breakfast, and Mr. Pumblechook continued to stand over me, staring fishily and breathing noisily, as he always did.

“Little more than skin and bone!” mused Mr. Pumblechook, aloud.  “And yet when he went from here (I may say with my blessing), and I spread afore him my humble store, like the Bee, he was as plump as a Peach!”

This reminded me of the wonderful difference between the servile manner in which he had offered his hand in my new prosperity, saying, “May I?” and the ostentatious clemency with which he had just now exhibited the same fat five fingers.

“Hah!” he went on, handing me the bread-and-butter.  “And air you a-going to Joseph?”

“In heaven’s name,” said I, firing in spite of myself, “what does it matter to you where I am going?  Leave that teapot alone.”

It was the worst course I could have taken, because it gave Pumblechook the opportunity he wanted.

“Yes, young man,” said he, releasing the handle of the article in question, retiring a step or two from my table, and speaking for the behoof of the landlord and waiter at the door, “I will leave that teapot alone.  You are right, young man.  For once, you are right.  I forgit myself when I take such an interest in your breakfast, as to wish your frame, exhausted by the debilitating effects of prodigygality, to be stimilated by the ’olesome nourishment of your forefathers.  And yet,” said Pumblechook, turning to the landlord and waiter, and pointing me out at arm’s length, “this is him as I ever sported with in his days of happy infancy!  Tell me not it cannot be; I tell you this is him!”

A low murmur from the two replied.  The waiter appeared to be particularly affected.

“This is him,” said Pumblechook, “as I have rode in my shaycart.  This is him as I have seen brought up by hand.  This is him untoe the sister of which I was uncle by marriage, as her name was Georgiana M’ria from her own mother, let him deny it if he can!”

The waiter seemed convinced that I could not deny it, and that it gave the case a black look.

“Young man,” said Pumblechook, screwing his head at me in the old fashion, “you air a-going to Joseph.  What does it matter to me, you ask me, where you air a-going?  I say to you, Sir, you air a-going to Joseph.”

The waiter coughed, as if he modestly invited me to get over that.

“Now,” said Pumblechook, and all this with a most exasperating air of saying in the cause of virtue what was perfectly convincing and conclusive, “I will tell you what to say to Joseph.  Here is Squires of the Boar present, known and respected in this town, and here is William, which his father’s name was Potkins if I do not deceive myself.”