ot been a matter
of fact.--Your worship ordered me to sell him last April, said
Obadiah.--Then go on foot for your pains, cried my father--I had much
rather walk than ride, said Obadiah, shutting the door.

What plagues, cried my father, going on with his calculation.--But the
waters are out, said Obadiah,--opening the door again.

Till that moment, my father, who had a map of Sanson's, and a book
of the post-roads before him, had kept his hand upon the head of his
compasses, with one foot of them fixed upon Nevers, the last stage he
had paid for--purposing to go on from that point with his journey and
calculation, as soon as Obadiah quitted the room: but this second attack
of Obadiah's, in opening the door and laying the whole country under
water, was too much.--He let go his compasses--or rather with a mixed
motion between accident and anger, he threw them upon the table; and
then there was nothing for him to do, but to return back to Calais (like
many others) as wise as he had set out.

When the letter was brought into the parlour, which contained the news
of my brother's death, my father had got forwards again upon his
journey to within a stride of the compasses of the very same stage of
Nevers.--By your leave, Mons. Sanson, cried my father, striking the
point of his compasses through Nevers into the table--and nodding to
my uncle Toby to see what was in the letter--twice of one night, is too
much for an English gentleman and his son, Mons. Sanson, to be turned
back from so lousy a town as Nevers--What think'st thou, Toby? added my
father in a sprightly tone.--Unless it be a garrison town, said my uncle
Toby--for then--I shall be a fool, said my father, smiling to himself,
as long as I live.--So giving a second nod--and keeping his compasses
still upon Nevers with one hand, and holding his book of the post-roads
in the other--half calculating and half listening, he leaned forwards
upon the table with both elbows, as my uncle Toby hummed over the
letter.

...he's gone! said my uncle Toby--Where--Who? cried my father.--My
nephew, said my uncle Toby.--What--without leave--without money--without
governor? cried my father in amazement. No:--he is dead, my dear
brother, quoth my uncle Toby.--Without being ill? cried my father
again.--I dare say not, said my uncle Toby, in a low voice, and fetching
a deep sigh from the bottom of his heart, he has been ill enough, poor
lad! I'll answer for him--for he is dead.

When A