Great Expectations

"William," said Mr. Pumblechook to the waiter, "put a muffin on table.

And has it come to this! Has it come to this!"

I frowningly sat down to my breakfast. Mr. Pumblechook stood over me and

poured out my tea--before I could touch the teapot--with the air of a

benefactor who was resolved to be true to the last.

"William," said Mr. Pumblechook, mournfully, "put the salt on. In

happier times," addressing me, "I think you took sugar? And did you take

milk? You did. Sugar and milk. William, bring a watercress."

"Thank you," said I, shortly, "but I don't eat watercresses."

"You don't eat 'em," returned Mr. Pumblechook, sighing and nodding

his head several times, as if he might have expected that, and as if

abstinence from watercresses were consistent with my downfall. "True.

The simple fruits of the earth. No. You needn't bring any, William."

I went on with my breakfast, and Mr. Pumblechook continued to stand over

me, staring fishily and breathing noisily, as he always did.

"Little more than skin and bone!" mused Mr. Pumblechook, aloud. "And yet

when he went from here (I may say with my blessing), and I spread afore

him my humble store, like the Bee, he was as plump as a Peach!"

This reminded me of the wonderful difference between the servile manner

in which he had offered his hand in my new prosperity, saying, "May I?"

and the ostentatious clemency with which he had just now exhibited the

same fat five fingers.

"Hah!" he went on, handing me the bread and butter. "And air you a going

to Joseph?"

"In heaven's name," said I, firing in spite of myself, "what does it

matter to you where I am going? Leave that teapot alone."

It was the worst course I could have taken, because it gave Pumblechook

the opportunity he wanted.

"Yes, young man," said he, releasing the handle of the article in

question, retiring a step or two from my table, and speaking for the

behoof of the landlord and waiter at the door, "I will leave that teapot

alone. You are right, young man. For once you are right. I forgit myself

when I take such an interest in your breakfast, as to wish your frame,

exhausted by the debilitating effects of prodigygality, to be stimilated

by the 'olesome nourishment of your forefathers. And yet," said

Pumblechook, turning to the landlord and waiter, and pointing me out at

arm's length, "this is him as I ever sported with in his days of happy

infancy! Tell me not it cannot be; I tell you this is him!"