He was dressed in a smartly-cut snuff-coloured coat, with large brass buttons; an orange neckerchief; a coarse, staring, shawl-pattern waistcoat; and drab breeches.

Mr.Crackit (for he it was) had no very great quantity of hair, either upon his head or face; but what he had, was of a reddish dye, and tortured into long corkscrew curls, through which he occasionally thrust some very dirty fingers, ornamented with large common rings.

He was a trifle above the middle size, and apparently rather weak in the legs; but this circumstance by no means detracted from his own admiration of his top-boots, which he contemplated, in their elevated situation, with lively satisfaction.
'Bill, my boy!' said this figure, turning his head towards the door, 'I'm glad to see you.

I was almost afraid you'd given it up: in which case I should have made a personal wentur.

Hallo!' Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as his eyes rested on Oliver, Mr.Toby Crackit brought himself into a sitting posture, and demanded who that was.
'The boy.