racter that names this chapter:

It was some time in the Summer of that year in which Dendermond was
taken by the allies--which was about seven years before my father came
into the country, and about as many after the time that my uncle Toby
and Trim had privately decamped from my father's house in town, in order
to lay some of the finest sieges to some of the finest fortified cities
in Europe--when my uncle Toby was one evening getting his supper, with
Trim sitting behind him at a small sideboard, the landlord of a little
inn in the village came into the parlor, with an empty phial in his
hand, to beg a glass or two of sack. "'Tis for a poor gentleman, I
think, of the army," said the landlord, "who has been taken ill at my
house four days ago, and has never held up his head since, or had a
desire to taste any thing till just now, that he has a fancy for a glass
of sack and a thin toast. 'I think,' says he, taking his hand from his
forehead, 'it would comfort me.'"

"If I could neither beg, borrow, nor buy such a thing," added the
landlord, "I would almost steal it for the poor gentleman, he is so ill.
I hope in God he will still mend," continued he; "we are all of us
concerned for him."

"Thou art 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 can not help
entertaining a very 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
parlor with the corporal, "but I can ask his son again." "Has 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 bedside these two days."

My uncle Toby laid down his knife and fork, a