“Yes, Major Barton; he 's come from his Excellency. I knew that last paragraph would do it,—eh. Major?”
“You were quite right, sir,” said Barton, slowly and distinctly, “that paragraph did do it; and very fortunate you may esteem yourself, if it will not do you also.”
“Eh, what! how me? What d' you mean?”
“How long, may I beg to ask,” continued Barton, in the same quiet tone of voice, “have you known this young gentleman?”
“Burke,—Tom Burke? Bless your heart, since the height of that fender. His father and mine were schoolfellows. I 'm not sure he was n't my godfather, or, at least, one of them; I had four.” Here the captain began counting on his fingers. “There was the Moulah, one; the Cham, two—”
“I beg your pardon for the interruption,” said Barton, with affected politeness; “how long has he occupied these quarters? That fact may possibly not be too antiquated for your memory.”
“How long?” said Bubbleton, reflectingly. “Let me see: here we are in August—”
“Three weeks on Tuesday last,” said I, interfering, to prevent any further drain on so lavish an imagination.
“Then you came here on the day of the riots?” said Barton.
“On that evening,” was my reply.