I'm a-going to tell you,' replied Mr Weller; 'he was one o' the largest

patterns as was ever turned out - reg'lar fat man, as hadn't caught a

glimpse of his own shoes for five-and-forty year.'

'Lor!' exclaimed Emma.

No, that he hadn't, my dear,' said Mr Weller; 'and if you'd put an

exact model of his own legs on the dinin'-table afore him, he wouldn't

ha' known 'em. Well, he always walks to his office with a wery

handsome gold watch-chain hanging out, about a foot and a quarter,

and a gold watch in his fob pocket as was worth - I'm afraid to say

how much, but as much as a watch can be - a large, heavy, round

manufacter, as stout for a watch, as he was for a man, and with a big

face in proportion. ‘You'd better not carry that 'ere watch,’ says the old

gen'l'm'n's friends, ‘you'll be robbed on it,’ says they. ‘Shall I?’ says he.

‘Yes, you will,’ says they. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘I should like to see the thief

as could get this here watch out, for I'm blessed if I ever can, it's such

a tight fit,’ says he, ‘and wenever I vants to know what's o'clock, I'm

obliged to stare into the bakers' shops,’ he says. Well, then he laughs

as hearty as if he was a-goin' to pieces, and out he walks agin with his

powdered head and pigtail, and rolls down the Strand with the chain

hangin' out furder than ever, and the great round watch almost

bustin' through his gray kersey smalls. There warn't a pickpocket in

all London as didn't take a pull at that chain, but the chain 'ud never

break, and the watch 'ud never come out, so they soon got tired of

dragging such a heavy old gen'l'm'n along the pavement, and he'd go

home and laugh till the pigtail wibrated like the penderlum of a Dutch

clock. At last, one day the old gen'l'm'n was a-rollin' along, and he

sees a pickpocket as he know'd by sight, a-coming up, arm in arm

with a little boy with a wery large head. ‘Here's a game,’ says the old

gen'l'm'n to himself, ‘they're a-goin' to have another try, but it won't

do!’ So he begins a-chucklin' wery hearty, wen, all of a sudden, the

little boy leaves hold of the pickpocket's arm, and rushes head

foremost straight into the old gen'l'm'n's stomach, and for a moment

doubles him right up with the pain. ‘Murder!’ says the old gen'l'm'n.

‘

All right, Sir,’ says the pickpocket, a-wisperin' in his ear. And wen he

come straight agin, the watch and chain was gone, and what's worse

than that, the old gen'l'm'n's digestion was all wrong ever afterwards,

to the wery last day of his life; so just you look about you, young

feller, and take care you don't get too fat.'

As Mr Weller concluded this moral tale, with which the fat boy

appeared much affected, they all three repaired to the large kitchen, in

which the family were by this time assembled, according to annual

custom on Christmas Eve, observed by old Wardle's forefathers from

time immemorial.

The Pickwick Papers