a good-natured soul, I will answer for thee, cried my uncle
Toby; and thou shalt drink the poor gentleman's health in a glass of
sack thyself,--and take a couple of bottles with my service, and tell
him he is heartily welcome to them, and to a dozen more if they will do
him good.

Though I am persuaded, said my uncle Toby, as the landlord shut the
door, he is a very compassionate fellow--Trim,--yet I cannot help
entertaining a high opinion of his guest too; there must be something
more than common in him, that in so short a time should win so much
upon the affections of his host;--And of his whole family, added the
corporal, for they are all concerned for him,.--Step after him, said my
uncle Toby,--do Trim,--and ask if he knows his name.

--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 smoak'd about
a dozen whiffs.--Trim came in front of his master, and made his bow;--my
uncle Toby smoak'd 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 groin. I
fear so, replied my uncle Toby; but I am not at rest in my mind, Trim,
since the account the landlo