you observe, Mr. Weevle, that you're — not to put too fine a point upon it — that you're rather greasy here, sir?"

"Why, I have noticed myself that there is a queer kind of flavour in the place to-night," Mr. Weevle rejoins. "I suppose it's chops at the Sol's Arms."

"Chops, do you think? Oh! Chops, eh?" Mr. Snagsby sniffs and tastes again. "Well, sir, I suppose it is. But I should say their cook at the Sol wanted a little looking after. She has been burning 'em, sir! And I don't think" — Mr. Snagsby sniffs and tastes again and then spits and wipes his mouth — "I don't think — not to put too fine a point upon it — that they were quite fresh when they were shown the gridiron."