er the manner of the tenor singers of his day. He chose
one of his maritime songs, and got through the first verse very well,
Barnes wagging his head at the chorus, with a "Bravo!" so offensive that
Fred Bayham, his neighbour, gripped the young man's arm, and told him to
hold his confounded tongue.

The Colonel began his second verse: and here, as will often happen
to amateur singers, his falsetto broke down. He was not in the least
annoyed, for I saw him smile very good-naturedly; and he was going
to try the verse again, when that unlucky Barnes first gave a sort of
crowing imitation of the song, and then burst into a yell of laughter.
Clive dashed a glass of wine in his face at the next minute, glass and
all; and no one who had watched the young man's behaviour was sorry for
the insult.

I never saw a kind face express more terror than Colonel Newcome's.
He started back as if he had himself received the blow from his son.
"Gracious God!" he cried out. "My boy insult a gentleman at my table!"

"I'd like to do it again," says Clive, whose whole body was trembling
with anger.

"Are you drunk, sir?" shouted his father.

"The boy served the young fellow right, sir," growled Fred Bayham in
his deepest voice. "Come along, young man. Stand up straight, and keep
a civil tongue in your head next time, mind you, when you dine with
gentlemen. It's easy to see," says Fred, looking round with a knowing
air, "that this young man hasn't got the usages of society--he's not
been accustomed to it:" and he led the dandy out.

Others had meanwhile explained the state of the case to the
Colonel--including Sir Thomas de Boots, who was highly energetic and
delighted with Clive's spirit; and some were for having the song to
continue; but the Colonel, puffing his cigar, said, "No. My pipe is out.
I will never sing again." So this history will record no more of Thomas
Newcome's musical performances.

CHAPTER XIV. Park Lane

Clive woke up the next morning to be aware of a racking headache, and,
by the dim light of his throbbing eyes, to behold his father with solemn
face at his bed-foot--a reproving conscience to greet his waking.

"You drank too much wine last night, and disgraced yourself, sir," the
old soldier said. "You must get up and eat humble pie this morning, my
boy."

"Humble what, father?" asked the lad, hardly aware of his words, or the
scene before him. "Oh, I've got such a headache!"

"Serve you right, sir. Ma