The remainder of the Port ebbed in meditation and chance remarks.  The bit of storm had done them both good; and Tom especially—­the cynical, carping, grim old gentleman—­was much improved by the nearer resemblance of his manner to Andrew’s.

Behind this unaffected fraternal concord, however, the fact that they were pledged to a race in eccentricity, was present.  They had been rivals before; and anterior to the date of his marriage, Andrew had done odd eclipsing things.  But Andrew required prompting to it; he required to be put upon his mettle.  Whereas, it was more nature with Tom:  nature and the absence of a wife, gave him advantages over Andrew.  Besides, he had his character to maintain.  He had said the word:  and the first vanity of your born eccentric is, that he shall be taken for infallible.

Presently Andrew ducked his head to mark the evening clouds flushing over the court-yard of the Aurora.

‘Time to be off, Tom,’ he said:  ‘wife at home.’

‘Ah!’ Tom answered.  ‘Well, I haven’t got to go to bed so early.’

‘What an old rogue you are, Tom!’ Andrew pushed his elbows forward on the table amiably.  ’Gad, we haven’t drunk wine together since—­by George! we’ll have another pint.’

‘Many as you like,’ said Tom.

Over the succeeding pint, Andrew, in whose veins the Port was merry, favoured his brother with an imitation of Major Strike, and indicated his dislike to that officer.  Tom informed him that Major Strike was speculating.

‘The ass eats at my table, and treats me with contempt.’

’Just tell him that you’re putting by the bones for him.  He ’ll want ‘em.’

Then Andrew with another glance at the clouds, now violet on a grey sky, said he must really be off.  Upon which Tom observed:  ’Don’t come here again.’

‘You old rascal, Tom!’ cried Andrew, swinging over the table:  ’it’s quite jolly for us to be hob-a-nobbing together once more.  ’Gad!—­no, we won’t though!  I promised—­Harriet.  Eh?  What say, Tom?’

‘Nother pint, Nan?’

Tom shook his head in a roguishly-cosy, irresistible way.  Andrew, from a shake of denial and resolve, fell into the same; and there sat the two brothers—­a jolly picture.

The hour was ten, when Andrew Cogglesby, comforted by Tom’s remark, that he, Tom, had a wig, and that he, Andrew, would have a wigging, left the Aurora; and he left it singing a song.  Tom Cogglesby still sat at his table, holding before him Evan’s letter, of which he had got possession; and knocking it round and round with a stroke of the forefinger, to the tune of, ’Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, ‘pothecary, ploughboy, thief’; each profession being sounded as a corner presented itself to the point of his nail.  After indulging in this species of incantation for some length of time, Tom Cogglesby read the letter from beginning to end, and called peremptorily for pen, ink, and paper.