“Not she. I rather think Dick assumes that manner with strangers. He has an idea that it makes people see he is a man of the world--a practical, plain-spoken man who is not to be humbugged. In reality, any child could trick him. A big, honest heart beats in that stout form, Charlie. Don’t let his manner prejudice you.” “I am not easily prejudiced.” Uncle Dick returned to the bank punctually at four, and came in, roaring out, “What ho! House here, I say! Not ready yet! ’Sdeath, but I’ll be revenged!” making at the same time so horrible a face at me, that Mr. Spratling had to squeeze his mouth into his coat-sleeves, with his hands locked over the nape of his neck, to save the explosion of an incontrollable yell. “That was Braham’s style in his recititavos,” said the old gentleman. “Did you ever hear of Braham?” “Oh, yes,” I answered, thinking he was joking me, “and of Isaac and Jacob too.” “Tom,” said he to his brother, who at that moment came out of his private room, “here’s a young gentleman who imagines that Braham lived in the time of Isaac and Jacob.” “If he didn’t, his forefathers did,” replied Uncle Tom; at which retort, from the head of the firm, both Mr. Curling and Mr. Spratling laughed loudly, the smaller salary being more boisterous than the larger. “Braham,” said uncle Dick, addressing me, “was a great singer, who composed the ‘Death of Nelson,’ worthy, sir, of Charles Dibdin. He was, besides, the best _Isaac Mendoza_ the world will ever see.” “Here comes the phaeton,” cried uncle Tom. “I thought you asked me if I had ever heard of Abraham,” I said. “Fudge! Abraham, indeed! I am talking of little Braham who used to sing--” and to my infinite amusement, and to his brother’s great concern, he struck an attitude, clapped his hand on his heart, and frowning at a framed advertisement of the British Imperial Marine Insurance Company, sang in a small clear tenor, the first bars of “’Twas in Trafalgar’s bay!” This done, he called out, “Now then, gentlemen, let none of you pretend never to have heard of Braham,” marched to the phaeton and climbed into the front seat. “Braham is one of his heroes,” uncle Tom whispered to me as we followed. “They were friends, I believe, twenty-five years ago. Dick was a good deal among the players and literary men of those days, and when he is in the vein, his conversation is very amusing.” We jumped into the phaeton, and drove to Grove End.