ends, others resigning
themselves complacently to their chairs, abusing Mr. Pacey and all dinner
delayers.

'I'm late, I guess,' repeated he, as he now got navigated up to his host
and held out his hand.

'Oh, never mind,' replied Puffington, accepting as little of the proffered
paw as he could; 'never mind,' repeated he, adding, as he looked at the
French clock on the mantelpiece now chiming a quarter past six, 'I dare say
I told you we dined at half-past five.'

'Dare say you did, old boy,' replied Pacey, kicking out his legs, and
giving Puffington what he meant for a friendly poke in the stomach, but
which in reality nearly knocked his wind out; 'dare say you did, old boy,
but so you did last time, if you remember, and deuce a bite
did I get before six; so I thought I'd be quits with you
this--_he--he--he--haw--haw--haw_,' grinning and staring about as if he had
done something very clever.

[Illustration: MR. PACEY]

Pacey was one of those deplorable beings--a country swell. Tomkins and
Hopkins, the haberdashers of Swillingford, never exhibited an ugly
out-of-the-way neckcloth or waistcoat with the words 'patronized by the
Prince,' 'very fashionable,' or 'quite the go,' upon them, but he
immediately adorned himself in one. On the present occasion he was attired
in a wide-stretching, lace-tipped, black Joinville, with recumbent gills,
showing the heavy amplitude of his enormous jaws, while the extreme
scooping out of a collarless, flashy-buttoned, chain-daubed, black silk
waistcoat, with broad blue stripes, afforded an uninterrupted view of a
costly embroidered shirt, the view extending, indeed, up to a portion of
his white satin 'forget-me-not' embroidered braces. His coat was a
broad-sterned, brass-buttoned blue, with pockets outside, and of course he
wore a pair of creaking highly varnished boots. He was apparently, about
twenty; just about the age when a youth thinks it fine to associate with
men, and an age at which some men are not above taking advantage of a
youth. Perhaps he looked rather older than he was, for he was stiff built
and strong, with an ample crop of whiskers extending from his great red
docken ears round his harvest moon of a face. He was lumpy, and clumsy, and
heavy all over. Having now got inducted, he began to stare round the party,
and first addressed our worthy friend Mr. Spraggon.

'Well, Sprag, how are you?' asked he.

'Well, Specs' (alluding to his father's trade), 'how are you?'