Sir
Thomas, who wanted the command himself.

"You ain't in the psalm-singing line, Sir Thomas," says Mr. Barnes;
"quite the contrary." In fact, Sir de Boots in his youth used to sing
with the Duke of York, and even against Captain Costigan, but was beaten
by that superior bacchanalian artist.

Sir Thomas looks as if to ask what the dash is that to you? but wanting
still to go to India again, and knowing how strong the Newcomes are in
Leadenhall Street, he thinks it necessary to be civil to the young cub,
and swallows his wrath once more into his waistband.

"I've got an uncle come home from India--upon my word I have," says
Barnes Newcome. "That is why I am so exhausted. I am going to buy him
a pair of gloves, number fourteen--and I want a tailor for him--not a
young man's tailor. Fogey's tailor rather. I'd take my father's; but
he has all his things made in the country--all--in the borough, you
know--he's a public man."

"Is Colonel Newcome, of the Bengal Cavalry, your uncle?" asks Sir Thomas
de Boots.

"Yes; will you come and meet him at dinner next Wednesday week, Sir
Thomas? and, Fogey, you come; you know you like a good dinner. You
don't know anything against my uncle, do you, Sir Thomas? Have I any
Brahminical cousins? Need we be ashamed of him?"

"I tell you what, young man, if you were more like him it wouldn't hurt
you. He's an odd man; they call him Don Quixote in India; I suppose
you've read Don Quixote?"

"Never heard of it, upon my word; and why do you wish I should be more
like him? I don't wish to be like him at all, thank you."

"Why, because he is one of the bravest officers that ever lived," roared
out the old soldier. "Because he's one of the kindest fellows; because
he gives himself no dashed airs, although he has reason to be proud if
he chose. That's why, Mr. Newcome."

"A topper for you, Barney, my boy," remarks Charles Heavyside, as the
indignant General walks away gobbling and red. Barney calmly drinks the
remains of his absinthe.

"I don't know what that old muff means," he says innocently, when he
has finished his bitter draught. "He's always flying out at me, the old
turkey-cock. He quarrels with my play at whist, the old idiot, and can
no more play than an old baby. He pretends to teach me billiards, and
I'll give him fifteen in twenty and beat his old head off. Why do they
let such fellows into clubs? Let's have a game at piquet till dinner,
Heavyside. Hallo! That's my uncle,