Conscious of his elfin power and submitting to his dread experience, Mr. Guppy consults him in the choice of that day's banquet, turning an appealing look towards him as the waitress repeats the catalogue of viands and saying "What do YOU take, Chick?" Chick, out of the profundity of his artfulness, preferring "veal and ham and French beans--and don't you forget the stuffing, Polly" (with an unearthly cock of his venerable eye), Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling give the like order. Three pint pots of half-and-half are superadded. Quickly the waitress returns bearing what is apparently a model of the Tower of Babel but what is really a pile of plates and flat tin dish-covers. Mr. Smallweed, approving of what is set before him, conveys intelligent benignity into his ancient eye and winks upon her. Then, amid a constant coming in, and going out, and running about, and a clatter of crockery, and a rumbling up and down of the machine which brings the nice cuts from the kitchen, and a shrill crying for more nice cuts down the speaking-pipe, and a shrill reckoning of the cost of nice cuts that have been disposed of, and a general flush and steam of hot joints, cut and uncut, and a considerably heated atmosphere in which the soiled knives and tablecloths seem to break out spontaneously into eruptions of grease and blotches of beer, the legal triumvirate appease their appetites.
Mr. Jobling is buttoned up closer than mere adornment might require. His hat presents at the rims a peculiar appearance of a glistening nature, as if it had been a favourite snail-promenade. The same phenomenon is visible on some parts of his coat, and particularly at the seams. He has the faded appearance of a gentleman in embarrassed circumstances; even his light whiskers droop with something of a shabby air.

Conscious of his elfin power, Mr. Guppy consults him in the choice of that day's banquet, appealing, "What do you take, Chick?" Chick preferring "veal and ham and French beans - and don't forget the stuffing, Polly", Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling give the same order. Three pint pots are added. The waitress returns bearing what is apparently a model of the Tower of Babel but is really a pile of plates and flat tin dish-covers. Mr. Smallweed, approving, winks upon her with his ancient eye. Then the legal three appease their appetites.
Mr. Jobling is buttoned up close. His hat and coat are shiny at the seams, and he has the faded appearance of a gentleman in embarrassed circumstances; even his whiskers droop with a shabby air.
