As for that Tom Jones—that fellow that sells himself, sir—by heavens, my blood boils when I think of him! I wouldn’t sit down in the same room with such a fellow, sir. If he came in at that door, I would say, ‘How dare you, you hireling ruffian, to sully with your presence an apartment where my young friend and I are conversing together? where two gentlemen, I say, are taking their wine after dinner? How dare you, you degraded villain?’ I don’t mean you, sir. I—I—I beg your pardon.” The Colonel was striding about the room in his loose garments, puffing his cigar fiercely anon, and then waving his yellow bandana; and it was by the arrival of Larkins, my clerk, that his apostrophe to Tom Jones was interrupted; he, Larkins, taking care not to show his amazement, having been schooled not to show or feel surprise at anything he might see or hear in our chambers. “What is it, Larkins?” said I. Larkins’ other master had taken his leave some time before, having business which called him away, and leaving me with the honest Colonel, quite happy with his talk and cigar. “It’s Brett’s man,” says Larkins. I confounded Brett’s man, and told the boy to bid him call again. Young Larkins came grinning back in a moment, and said: “Please, sir, he says his orders is not to go away without the money.” “Confound him again,” I cried. “Tell him I have no money in the house. He must come to-morrow.” As I spoke, Clive was looking in wonder, and the Colonel’s countenance assumed an appearance of the most dolorous sympathy. Nevertheless, as with a great effort, he fell to talking about Tom Jones again, and continued: “No, sir, I have no words to express my indignation against such a fellow as Tom Jones. But I forgot that I need not speak. The great and good Dr. Johnson has settled that question. You remember what he said to Mr. Boswell about Fielding?” “And yet Gibbon praises him, Colonel,” said the Colonel’s interlocutor, “and that is no small praise. He says that Mr. Fielding was of the family that drew its origin from the Counts of Hapsburg; but——” “Gibbon! Gibbon was an infidel, and I would not give the end of this cigar for such a man’s opinion. If Mr. Fielding was a gentleman by birth, he ought to have known better; and so much the worse for him that he did not. But what am I talking of, wasting your valuable time? No more smoke, thank you. I must away into the City, but would not pass the Temple without calling on you, and thanking my boy’s old protector. You will have the kindness to come and dine with us—to-morrow, the next day, your own day? Your friend is going out of town? I hope, on his return, to have the pleasure of making his further acquaintance. Come, Clive.” Clive, who had been deep in a volume of Hogarth’s engravings during the above discussion, or rather oration of his father’s, started up and took leave, beseeching me, at the same time, to come soon and see his pony; and so, with renewed greetings, we parted.