Young Martin sat at the head of the table, and Tom Pinch at the foot;
and if there were a genial face at that board, it was Tom's. They all
took their tone from Tom. Everybody drank to him, everybody looked to
him, everybody thought of him, everybody loved him. If he so much as
laid down his knife and fork, somebody put out a hand to shake with him.
Martin and Mary had taken him aside before dinner, and spoken to him so
heartily of the time to come, laying such fervent stress upon the trust
they had in his completion of their felicity, by his society and closest
friendship, that Tom was positively moved to tears. He couldn't bear it.
His heart was full, he said, of happiness. And so it was. Tom spoke the
honest truth. It was. Large as thy heart was, dear Tom Pinch, it had no
room that day for anything but happiness and sympathy!
And there was Fips, old Fips of Austin Friars, present at the dinner,
and turning out to be the jolliest old dog that ever did violence to his
convivial sentiments by shutting himself up in a dark office. 'Where is
he?' said Fips, when he came in. And then he pounced on Tom, and told
him that he wanted to relieve himself of all his old constraint; and in
the first place shook him by one hand, and in the second place shook him
by the other, and in the third place nudged him in the waistcoat, and in
the fourth place said, 'How are you?' and in a great many other places
did a great many other things to show his friendliness and joy.
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