do what I bid ye,
sir," says the doctor.

"I must finish the picture first for Tommy," says the colonel, laughing.
"Here, Tommy, will you have your Pandour with whiskers or without?"

"Whisters," says Tommy, quite intent on the picture.

"Who the devil are ye, sir?" cries the doctor; "are ye a printer's man or
are ye not?" he pronounced it like _naught_.

"Your reverence needn't raise the devil to ask who I am," says Colonel
Esmond. "Did you ever hear of Dr. Faustus, little Tommy? or Friar Bacon,
who invented gunpowder, and set the Thames on fire?"

Mr. Swift turned quite red, almost purple. "I did not intend any offence,
sir," says he.

"I daresay, sir, you offended without meaning," says the other drily.

"Who are ye, sir? Do you know who I am, sir? You are one of the pack of
Grub-Street scribblers that my friend Mr. Secretary hath laid by the
heels. How dare ye, sir, speak to me in this tone?" cries the doctor, in a
great fume.

"I beg your honour's humble pardon if I have offended your honour," says
Esmond, in a tone of great humility. "Rather than be sent to the Compter,
or be put in the pillory, there's nothing I wouldn't do. But Mrs. Leach,
the printer's lady, told me to mind Tommy whilst she went for her husband
to the tavern, and I daren't leave the child lest he should fall into the
fire; but if your reverence will hold him----"

"I take the little beast!" says the doctor, starting back. "I am engaged
to your betters, fellow. Tell Mr. Leach that when he makes an appointment
with Dr. Swift he had best keep it, do ye hear? And keep a respectful
tongue in your head, sir, when you address a person like me."

"I'm but a poor broken-down soldier," says the colonel, "and I've seen
better days, though I am forced now to turn my hand to writing. We can't
help our fate, sir."

"You're the person that Mr. Leach hath spoken to me of, I presume. Have
the goodness to speak civilly when you are spoken to--and tell Leach to
call at my lodgings in Bury Street, and bring the papers with him to-night
at ten o'clock. And the next time you see me, you'll know me, and be
civil, Mr. Kemp."

Poor Kemp, who had been a lieutenant at the beginning of the war, and
fallen into misfortune, was the writer of the _Post-Boy_, and now took
honest Mr. Leach's pay in place of her Majesty's. Esmond had seen this
gentleman, and a very ingenious, hard-working honest fellow he was,
toiling to give bread to a great family, and watching