Tom made a counter demonstration:  ‘And I’ll have my way!’

‘Hang it!  I can be as eccentric as you,’ said Andrew.

‘And I as much a donkey as you, if I try hard,’ said Tom.

Something of the cobbler’s stall followed this; till waxing furious, Tom sung out to Jonathan, hovering around them in watchful timidity, ’More Port!’ and the words immediately fell oily on the wrath of the brothers; both commenced wiping their heads with their handkerchiefs the faces of both emerged and met, with a half-laugh:  and, severally determined to keep to what they had spoken, there was a tacit accord between them to drop the subject.

Like sunshine after smart rain, the Port shone on these brothers.  Like a voice from the pastures after the bellowing of the thunder, Andrew’s voice asked:  ’Got rid of that twinge of the gout, Tom?  Did you rub in that ointment?’ while Tom replied:  ’Ay.  How about that rheumatism of yours?  Have you tried that Indy oil?’ receiving a like assurance.

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?’