Chapter XXIII

In Which Mr Samuel Weller Begins To Devote His Energies To The

Return Match Between Himself And Mr Trotter

In a small room in the vicinity of the stableyard, betimes in the

morning, which was ushered in by Mr Pickwick's adventure with the

middle - aged lady in the yellow curl-papers, sat Mr Weller, senior,

preparing himself for his journey to London. He was sitting in an

excellent attitude for having his portrait taken; and here it is.

It is very possible that at some earlier period of his career, Mr Weller's

profile might have presented a bold and determined outline. His face,

however, had expanded under the influence of good living, and a

disposition remarkable for resignation; and its bold, fleshy curves had

so far extended beyond the limits originally assigned them, that

unless you took a full view of his countenance in front, it was difficult

to distinguish more than the extreme tip of a very rubicund nose. His

chin, from the same cause, had acquired the grave and imposing form

which is generally described by prefixing the word 'double' to that

expressive feature; and his complexion exhibited that peculiarly

mottled combination of colours which is only to be seen in gentlemen

of his profession, and in underdone roast beef. Round his neck he

wore a crimson travelling-shawl, which merged into his chin by such

imperceptible gradations, that it was difficult to distinguish the folds

of the one, from the folds of the other. Over this, he mounted a long

waistcoat of a broad pink-striped pattern, and over that again, a wide-

skirted green coat, ornamented with large brass buttons, whereof the

two which garnished the waist, were so far apart, that no man had

ever beheld them both at the same time. His hair, which was short,

sleek, and black, was just visible beneath the capacious brim of a low-

crowned brown hat. His legs were encased in knee-cord breeches, and

painted top-boots; and a copper watch-chain, terminating in one seal,

and a key of the same material, dangled loosely from his capacious

waistband.

We have said that Mr Weller was engaged in preparing for his journey

to London - he was taking sustenance, in fact. On the table before

him, stood a pot of ale, a cold round of beef, and a very respectable-

looking loaf, to each of which he distributed his favours in turn, with

the most rigid impartiality. He had just cut a mighty slice from the

latter, when the footsteps of somebody entering the room, caused him

to raise his head; and he beheld his son.

'Mornin', Sammy!' said the father.

The son walked up to the pot of ale, and nodding significantly to his

parent, took a long draught by way of reply.

The Pickwick Papers