and backgammon differences with Captain Black. From all I have heard he is the worthy son of his admirable mother. And I bet you even on the four events, if you stay three days in a country house with him, which appears to be your present happy idea,—that he will quarrel with you, insult you, and apologize; that he will intoxicate himself more than once; that he will offer to play cards with you, and not pay on losing (if he wins, I perhaps need not state what his conduct will be); and that he will try to borrow money from you, and most likely from your servant, before he goes away.” So saying, the sententious Fitz strutted up the steps of one of his many club-haunts in Pall Mall, and left me forewarned, and I trust forearmed against Captain Clarence and all his works. The adversary, when at length I came in sight of him, did not seem very formidable. I beheld a weakly little man with Chinese eyes, and pretty little feet and hands, whose pallid countenance told of Finishes and Casinos. His little chest and fingers were decorated with many jewels. A perfume of tobacco hung round him. His little moustache was twisted with an elaborate gummy curl. I perceived that the little hand which twirled the moustache shook woefully: and from the little chest there came a cough surprisingly loud and dismal. He was lying on a sofa as I entered, and the children of the house were playing round him. “If you are our uncle, why didn’t you come to see us oftener?” asks Popham. “How should I know that you were such uncommonly nice children?” asks the captain. “We’re not nice to you,” says Popham. “Why do you cough so? Mamma used to cough. And why does your hand shake so?” “My hand shakes because I am ill: and I cough because I’m ill. Your mother died of it, and I daresay I shall too.” “I hope you’ll be good, and repent before you die, uncle, and I will lend you some nice books,” says Cecilia. “Oh, bother books!” cries Pop. “And I hope _you’ll_ be good, Popham,” and “You hold _your_ tongue, Miss,” and “I shall,” and “I shan’t,” and “You’re another,” and “I’ll tell Miss Prior,”—“Go and tell, telltale,”—“Boo”—“Boo”—“Boo”—“Boo”—and I don’t know what more exclamations came tumultuously and rapidly from these dear children, as their uncle lay before them, a handkerchief to his mouth, his little feet high raised on the sofa cushions. Captain Baker turned a little eye towards me, as I entered the room, but did not change his easy and elegant posture. When I came near to the sofa where he reposed, he was good enough to call out: “Glass of sherry!” “It’s Mr. Batchelor; it isn’t Bedford, uncle,” says Cissy. “Mr. Batchelor ain’t got any sherry in his pocket:—have you, Mr. Batchelor? You ain’t like old Mrs. Prior, always pocketing things, are you?” cries Pop, and falls a-laughing at the ludicrous idea of my being mistaken for Bedford. “Beg your pardon. How should I know, you know?” drawls the invalid on the sofa. “Everybody’s the same now, you see.”