"I have quite forgot it truly," said the landlord, coming back into the parlour with the Corporal; "but I can ask his son again." "Has he a son with him, then?" said my uncle Toby. "A boy," replied the landlord, "of about eleven or twelve years of age; but the poor creature has tasted almost as little as his father; he does nothing but mourn and lament for him night and day. He has not stirred from the bed-side these two days."
My uncle Toby laid down his knife and fork, and thrust his plate from before him, as the landlord gave him the account; and Trim, without being ordered, took away, without saying one word, and, in a few minutes after, brought him his pipe and tobacco.
"Stay in the room a little," said my uncle Toby.
"Trim," said my uncle Toby, after he lighted his pipe and smoked about a dozen whiffs. Trim came in front of his master, and made his bow; my uncle Toby smoked on, and said no more. "Corporal!" said my uncle Toby. The Corporal made his bow. My uncle Toby proceeded no farther, but finished his pipe.
"Trim!" said my uncle Toby, "I have a project in my head, as it is a bad night, of wrapping myself up warm in my roquelaure, and paying a visit to this poor gentleman." "Your Honour's roquelaure," replied the Corporal, "has not once been had on since the night before your Honour received your wound, when we mounted guard in the trenches before the gate of St. Nicholas; and, besides, it is so cold and rainy a night that, what with the roquelaure, and what with the weather, 'twill be enough to give your Honour your death, and bring on your Honour's torment in your
