A Whale at Peas — 498
The dinner was a capital one, and Judge Tips played an excellent knife and fork. A dish of peas came round, the last of the marrowfats; the latest peas of summer. I am very fond of peas, and was rejoiced to see my favourites once again; and I anxiously awaited their arrival. Miss Tips, Miss Julia Tips, and Tips mère, as the French would say, had each taken a decorous spoonful from the flying dish, and now the black waiter was offering the delicacy to Tips himself, enough being left for five persons, at least. What was my horror to behold the judge deliberately monopolize the whole—sweep, as I live, every pea into his own plate—and then turning to me, with a greasy smile, remark: “I guess, stranger, I’m a whale at peas.”