“Brayvo, Phosy!” cried Timotheus.

“I assert now, as I have asserted before,” continued Corporal Rigby, “that the British army never has been defeated, and never can be defeated.  I belong to the British army, and know whereof I speak.”

“Were you in the American war, Mr. Pawkins?” asked Tryphena.

“Yaas, I was thar, like the consterble, in the haouse hold trooeps.  When they come araound a draaftin’, I skit aout to Kennidy.  I’ve only got one thing agin the war, and that is makin’ every common nigger so sassy he thinks he’s the ekal of a white man.  Soon’s I think of that, the war makes me sick.”

“It is the boast of our Empire,” remarked the pensioner, grandly, “that wherever its flag floats, the slave is free.”

“It’s a derned pity,” said Mr. Pawkins; “that there boy, Julius Sneezer Disgustus Quackenboss, ud be wuth heaps more’n he is, if his boss jest had the right to lick him straight along.”

“Who,” shrieked Maguffin; “who’se yar Squackenbawsin’ an’ gibbin’ nigger lip ter?  My name’s Mortimah Magrudah Maguffin, an’ what’s yourn?  Pawkins!  Oh massy!  Pawkins, nex’ thing ter punkins.  I cud get er punkin, an’ cut a hole er two in it an’ make a bettah face nor yourn, Mistah Pawkins, candaberus, lantun jaw, down east, Yankee white tresh.  What you doin’ roun’ this house, anyway?”

“Arrah, hush now, childher!” said Mr. Terry, entering from the hall.  “The aivenin’s the time to make up aall dishputes, an’ quoiet aal yer angry faylins afore yeez say yer worruds an’ go to shlape, wid the howly angels gyardin’ yeez.  Good aivenin’, Corporal.”

“Good evening, Sergeant-Major.”

“Mr. Terry,” asked Tryphosa, timidly, “will you play a game at Cities, Rivers and Mountains?  We were waiting for even numbers to begin.”  The veteran, who knew the game, agreed.  Gallantly, the gentlemen asked the two ladies to choose sides, whereupon Tryphena selected Mr. Pawkins, Maguffin and Sylvanus; Mr. Terry, the constable, and Timotheus fell to Tryphosa.  Peace once more reigned, save when the great-grandson of the brigadier general was detected in looking over his opponent’s cards and otherwise acting illegally.

Bigglethorpe and the lawyer entered the house, not far from bed time.  The company was in the drawing-room, and a lady was at the piano singing, and playing her own accompaniment, while Mr. Lamb was standing beside her, pretending to turn over the music, of which he had as little knowledge as the animal whose name he bore.  The song was that beautiful one of Burns,

     O wert thou in the cauld blast
     On yonder lea, on yonder lea,