The stout man was smoking with great vehemence, but between every half-dozen puffs, he took his pipe from his mouth, and looked first at Mr.Weller and then at Mr.Pickwick.
Then, he would bury in a quart pot, as much of his countenance as the dimensions of the quart pot admitted of its receiving, and take another look at Sam and Mr.Pickwick.Then he would take another half-dozen puffs with an air of profound meditation and look at them again.

At last the stout man, putting up his legs on the seat, and leaning his back against the wall, began to puff at his pipe without leaving off at all, and to stare through the smoke at the new-comers, as if he had made up his mind to see the most he could of them.
At first the evolutions of the stout man had escaped Mr.Weller's observation, but by degrees, as he saw Mr.Pickwick's eyes every now and then turning towards him, he began to gaze in the same direction, at the same time shading his eyes with his hand, as if he partially recognised the object before him, and wished to make quite sure of its identity.
His doubts were speedily dispelled, however; for the stout man having blown a thick cloud from his pipe, a hoarse voice, like some strange effort of ventriloquism, emerged from beneath the capacious shawls which muffled his throat and chest, and slowly uttered these sounds--'Wy, Sammy!' 'Who's that, Sam ?' inquired Mr.Pickwick.
'Why, I wouldn't ha' believed it, Sir,' replied Mr.Weller, with astonished eyes.

'It's the old 'un.' 'Old one,' said Mr.Pickwick.

'What old one ?' 'My father, sir,' replied Mr.Weller.

'How are you, my ancient ?' And with this beautiful ebullition of filial affection, Mr.Weller made room on the seat beside him, for the stout man, who advanced pipe in mouth and pot in hand, to greet him.
'Wy, Sammy,' said the father, 'I ha'n't seen you, for two year and better.' 'Nor more you have, old codger,' replied the son.