'It always was, I hope. If
I had known you had been coming, Tom, I would have had something for
breakfast. I would rather have such a surprise than the best breakfast
in the world, myself; but yours is another case, and I have no doubt you
are as hungry as a hunter. You must make out as well as you can, Tom,
and we'll recompense ourselves at dinner-time. You take sugar, I know;
I recollect the sugar at Pecksniff's. Ha, ha, ha! How IS Pecksniff? When
did you come to town? DO begin at something or other, Tom. There are
only scraps here, but they are not at all bad. Boar's Head potted. Try
it, Tom. Make a beginning whatever you do. What an old Blade you are! I
am delighted to see you.'
While he delivered himself of these words in a state of great commotion,
John was constantly running backwards and forwards to and from the
closet, bringing out all sorts of things in pots, scooping extraordinary
quantities of tea out of the caddy, dropping French rolls into his
boots, pouring hot water over the butter, and making a variety of
similar mistakes without disconcerting himself in the least.
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