When I got back to my breakfast in the Boar's coffee-room, I found Mr.
Pumblechook conversing with the landlord. Mr. Pumblechook (not improved
in appearance by his late nocturnal adventure) was waiting for me, and
addressed me in the following terms:-"Young man, I am sorry to see you brought low. But what else could be
expected! what else could be expected!"

As he extended his hand with a magnificently forgiving air, and as I was
broken by illness and unfit to quarrel, I took it.

"William," said Mr. Pumblechook to the waiter, "put a muffin on table.
And has it come to this! Has it come to this!"

I frowningly sat down to my breakfast. Mr. Pumblechook stood over me and
poured out my tea--before I could touch the teapot--with the air of a
benefactor who was resolved to be true to the last.

"William," said Mr. Pumblechook, mournfully, "put the salt on. In
happier times," addressing me, "I think you took sugar? And did you take
milk? You did. Sugar and milk. William, bring a watercress."

"Thank you," said I, shortly, "but I don't eat watercresses."

"You don't eat 'em," returned Mr. Pumblechook, sighing and nodding
his head several times, as if he might have expected that, and as if
abstinence from watercresses were consistent with my downfall. "True.
The simple fruits of the earth. No. You needn't bring any, William."