stared at the old chair for half an hour. - Damn the chair, it was such

a strange old thing, he couldn't take his eyes off it.

‘'Well,’ said Tom, slowly undressing himself, and staring at the old

chair all the while, which stood with a mysterious aspect by the

bedside, ‘I never saw such a rum concern as that in my days. Very

odd,’ said Tom, who had got rather sage with the hot punch - 'very

odd.’ Tom shook his head with an air of profound wisdom, and looked

at the chair again. He couldn't make anything of it though, so he got

into bed, covered himself up warm, and fell asleep.

'In about half an hour, Tom woke up with a start, from a confused

dream of tall men and tumblers of punch; and the first object that

presented itself to his waking imagination was the queer chair.

‘I won't look at it any more,’ said Tom to himself, and he squeezed his

eyelids together, and tried to persuade himself he was going to sleep

again. No use; nothing but queer chairs danced before his eyes,

kicking up their legs, jumping over each other's backs, and playing all

kinds of antics.

‘

'I may as well see one real chair, as two or three complete sets of false

ones,’ said Tom, bringing out his head from under the bedclothes.

There it was, plainly discernible by the light of the fire, looking as

provoking as ever.

'Tom gazed at the chair; and, suddenly as he looked at it, a most

extraordinary change seemed to come over it. The carving of the back

gradually assumed the lineaments and expression of an old, shrivelled

human face; the damask cushion became an antique, flapped

waistcoat; the round knobs grew into a couple of feet, encased in red

cloth slippers; and the whole chair looked like a very ugly old man, of

the previous century, with his arms akimbo. Tom sat up in bed, and

rubbed his eyes to dispel the illusion. No. The chair was an ugly old

gentleman; and what was more, he was winking at Tom Smart.

'Tom was naturally a headlong, careless sort of dog, and he had had

five tumblers of hot punch into the bargain; so, although he was a

little startled at first, he began to grow rather indignant when he saw

the old gentleman winking and leering at him with such an impudent

air. At length he resolved that he wouldn't stand it; and as the old face

still kept winking away as fast as ever, Tom said, in a very angry tone

'‘What the devil are you winking at me for?’

The Pickwick Papers