The Pickwick Papers

by Charles Dickens

He was a prim–faced, red–nosed man, with a long, thin countenance, and a semi–rattlesnake sort of eye—rather sharp, but decidedly bad. He wore very short trousers, and black cotton stockings, which, like the rest of his apparel, were particularly rusty. His looks were starched, but his white neckerchief was not, and its long limp ends straggled over his closely–buttoned waistcoat in a very uncouth and unpicturesque fashion. A pair of old, worn, beaver gloves, a broad–brimmed hat, and a faded green umbrella, with plenty of whalebone sticking through the bottom, as if to counterbalance the want of a handle at the top, lay on a chair beside him; and, being disposed in a very tidy and careful manner, seemed to imply that the red–nosed man, whoever he was, had no intention of going away in a hurry. To do the red–nosed man justice, he would have been very far from wise if he had entertained any such intention; for, to judge from all appearances, he must have been possessed of a most desirable circle of acquaintance, if he could have reasonably expected to be more comfortable anywhere else. The fire was blazing brightly under the influence of the bellows, and the kettle was singing gaily under the influence of both. A small tray of tea–things was arranged on the table; a plate of hot buttered toast was gently simmering before the fire; and the red–nosed man himself was busily engaged in converting a large slice of bread into the same agreeable edible, through the instrumentality ...