know, now. Oh, yes!" said Mr. Pickwick, after a second taste. "It is punch."
Mr. Ben Allen looked at Mr. Pickwick; Mr. Pickwick looked at Mr. Ben Allen; Mr. Ben Allen smiled; Mr. Pickwick did not.
"It would serve him right," said the last-named gentleman, with some severity, "it would serve him right to drink it every drop."
"The very thing that occurred to me," said Ben Allen.
"Is it indeed?" rejoined Mr. Pickwick. "Then here's his health!" With these words, that excellent person took a most energetic pull at the bottle, and handed it to Ben Allen, who was not slow to imitate his example. The smiles became mutual, and the milk-punch was gradually and cheerfully disposed of.
"After all," said Mr. Pickwick, as he drained the last drop, "his pranks are really very amusing; very entertaining indeed."
"You may say that," rejoined Mr. Ben Allen. In proof of Bob Sawyer's being one of the funniest fellows alive, he proceeded to entertain Mr. Pickwick with a long and circumstantial account how that gentleman once drank himself into a fever and got his head shaved; the relation of which pleasant and agreeable history was only stopped by the stoppage of the chaise at the Bell at Berkeley Heath, to change horses.
"I say! We're going to dine here, aren't we?" said Bob, looking in at the window.
"Dine!" said Mr. Pickwick. "Why, we have only come nineteen miles, and have eighty-seven and a half to go."
"Just the reason why we should take something to enable us to bear up against the fatigue," remonstrated Mr. Bob Sawyer.
Oh, it's quite impossible to dine at half-past eleven o'clock in the day," replied Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch.
"So it is," rejoined Bob, "lunch is the very thing. Hallo, you sir! Lunch for three, directly, and keep the horses back
