Weal pie,' said Mr Weller, soliloquising, as he arranged the eatables

on the grass. 'Wery good thing is weal pie, when you know the lady as

made it, and is quite sure it ain't kittens; and arter all though, where's

the odds, when they're so like weal that the wery piemen themselves

don't know the difference?'

Don't they, Sam?' said Mr Pickwick.

Not they, sir,' replied Mr Weller, touching his hat. 'I lodged in the

same house vith a pieman once, sir, and a wery nice man he was -

reg'lar clever chap, too - make pies out o' anything, he could. ‘What a

number o' cats you keep, Mr Brooks,’ says I, when I'd got intimate

with him. ‘Ah,’ says he, ‘I do - a good many,’ says he, ‘You must be

wery fond o' cats,’ says I. ‘Other people is,’ says he, a-winkin' at me;

‘they ain't in season till the winter though,’ says he. ‘Not in season!’

says I. ‘No,’ says he, ‘fruits is in, cats is out.’ ‘Why, what do you

mean?’ says I. ‘Mean!’ says he. ‘That I'll never be a party to the

combination o' the butchers, to keep up the price o' meat,’ says he.

‘

Mr Weller,’ says he, a-squeezing my hand wery hard, and vispering in

my ear - ’don't mention this here agin - but it's the seasonin' as does

it. They're all made o' them noble animals,’ says he, a-pointin' to a

wery nice little tabby kitten, ‘and I seasons 'em for beefsteak, weal or

kidney, 'cording to the demand. And more than that,’ says he, ‘I can

make a weal a beef-steak, or a beef- steak a kidney, or any one on 'em

a mutton, at a minute's notice, just as the market changes, and

appetites wary!’'

He must have been a very ingenious young man, that, Sam,' said Mr

Pickwick, with a slight shudder.

Just was, sir,' replied Mr Weller, continuing his occupation of

emptying the basket, 'and the pies was beautiful. Tongue - , well that's

a wery good thing when it ain't a woman's. Bread - knuckle o' ham,

reg'lar picter - cold beef in slices, wery good. What's in them stone

jars, young touch-and-go?'

'Beer in this one,' replied the boy, taking from his shoulder a couple of

large stone bottles, fastened together by a leathern strap - 'cold punch

in t'other.'

And a wery good notion of a lunch it is, take it altogether,' said Mr

Weller, surveying his arrangement of the repast with great

satisfaction. 'Now, gen'l'm'n, ‘fall on,’ as the English said to the French

when they fixed bagginets.'

It needed no second invitation to induce the party to yield full justice

to the meal; and as little pressing did it require to induce Mr Weller,

the long gamekeeper, and the two boys, to station themselves on the

The Pickwick Papers