must be exceedingly delicious to those who are extremely fond of smoking. A superficial traveller might object to the dirt, which is their leading characteristic; but to those who view it as an indication of traffic and commercial prosperity, it is truly gratifying."
Punctual to five o'clock came the stranger, and shortly afterwards the dinner. He had divested himself of his brown paper parcel, but had made no alteration in his attire, and was, if possible, more loquacious than ever.
"What's that?" he inquired, as the waiter removed one of the covers.
"Soles, Sir."
"Soles—ah!—capital fish—all come from London-stage-coach proprietors get up political dinners—carriage of soles—dozens of baskets—cunning fellows. Glass of wine, Sir."
"With pleasure," said Mr. Pickwick—and the stranger took wine, first with him, and then with Mr. Snodgrass, and then with Mr. Tupman, and then with Mr. Winkle, and then with the whole party together, almost as rapidly as he talked.
"Devil of a mess on the staircase, waiter," said the stranger. "Forms going up—carpenters coming down—lamps, glasses, harps. What's going forward?"
"Ball, Sir," said the waiter.
"Assembly—eh?"
"No, Sir, not assembly, Sir. Ball for the benefit of a charity, Sir."
"Many fine women in this town, do you know, Sir?" inquired Mr. Tupman, with great interest.
"Splendid—capital. Kent, Sir—Every body knows Kent—apples, cherries, hops, and women. Glass of wine, Sir!"
"With great pleasure," replied Mr. Tupman. The stranger filled, and emptied.
"I should very much like to go," said Mr. Tupman, resuming the subject of the ball, "very much."
"Tickets at the bar, Sir," interposed the waiter; "half-a-guinea each, Sir."
Mr. Tupman again expressed an earnest wish to be present at the festivity; but meeting with no response in the darkened eye of Mr. Snodgrass, or the abstracted gaze of Mr. Pickwick, he applied himself with great interest to the port wine and dessert which had just been placed on the table. The waiter withdrew, and the party were left to enjoy the cosy couple of hours succeeding dinner.
"Beg your pardon, Sir," said the stranger, "Bottle stands—pass it round—way of the sun—through the button-hole—no heeltaps," and he emptied his glass, which he had filled about two minutes before; and poured out another, with the air of a man who was used to it.
The wine was passed, and a fresh supply ordered. The visitor talked, the Pickwickians listened. Mr. Tupman felt every moment more disposed for the ball. Mr. Pickwick's countenance glowed with an expression of universal philanthropy, and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass fell fast asleep.
"They're beginning up stairs," said the stranger—"hear the com-
