"Ay, he comes back," said the landlord, "to his great friends, now and again, and gives the cold shoulder to the man that made him."

     "What man is that?"

     "Him that I speak of," said the landlord. "Mr. Pumblechook."

     "Is he ungrateful to no one else?"

     "No doubt he would be, if he could," returned the landlord, "but he can't. And why? Because Pumblechook done everything for him."

     "Does Pumblechook say so?"

     "Say so!" replied the landlord. "He han't no call to say so."

     "But does he say so?"

     "It would turn a man's blood to white wine winegar to hear him tell of it, sir," said the landlord.

     I thought, "Yet Joe, dear Joe, you never tell of it. Long-suffering and loving Joe, you never complain. Nor you, sweet-tempered Biddy!"

     "Your appetite's been touched like by your accident," said the landlord, glancing at the bandaged arm under my coat. "Try a tenderer bit."