CHAPTER XVIII. THE CAPTAIN'S QUARTERS
I WAS not sorry to find that Miss Bubbleton did not respond to the noisy summons of the captain, as he flourished about from one room to the other, making the quarters echo to the sweet name of “Anna Maria.” “Saladin,” “Grimes,” “Peter,” were also shouted out unsuccessfully; and with a fierce menace against various grooms of the chambers, waiting-men, and lackeys, who happily were still unborn, Bubbleton flung himself into a seat, and began to conjecture what had become of the inhabitants.
“She's paying a morning call,—gone to see the Duchess; that 's it. Or perhaps she 's looking over that suit of pearls I bought yesterday at Gallon's; pretty baubles, but dear at eight hundred pounds. Never mind; what 's money for, eh, Tom?”
As he looked at me for a reply, I drew my chair closer towards him, and assuming as much of importance as my manner could command, I besought his attention for a moment. Hitherto, partly from my own indecision, partly from his flighty and volatile bearing, I never had an opportunity either to explain my real position or my political sentiments, much less my intentions for the future. The moment had at length arrived, and I resolved to profit by it; and in as few words as I was able, gave a brief narrative of my life, from the hour of my father's death to the day in which I fell into his own hands in Dublin, only omitting such portions as might, by the mention of names, compromise others concerned.
Nothing could possibly be more attentive than he was during the entire detail. He leaned his head on his hand, and listened with eager curiosity to all my scrapes and difficulties, occasionally nodding in assent, and now evincing by his excited air his desire to learn farther; and when I at last wound up by avowing my long cherished desire to enter the French service, he sat perfectly silent, and seemed to reflect gravely on the whole.
“I say, Tom,” said he, at length, as he stared me full in the face, and laid his hand impressively on my knee, “there 's good stuff in that,—excellent stuff, depend upon it.”
“Good stuff! what do you mean?” said I, in amazement.
“I mean,” replied he, “there's bone in it, sinew in it, substance in it; there are some admirable situations too. How Fulham would come out in Tony Basset,—brown shorts, white stockings, high shoes and buckles, his own very costume. And there's that little thing, Miss Booth, for Nelly; give her a couple of songs,—ballad airs take best. Williams should be Barton; a devilish fine villain in coarse parts, Williams,—I think I see him stealing along by the flats with his soldiers to the attack. Then the second act should open: interior of hut; peasants round a table (eating always successful on the stage; nothing like seeing a fat fellow bolting hard eggs, and blustering out unpronounceable jokes over a flagon of colored water). You, by right, should have your own part; splendid thing, devilish fine,—your sensations when the cabin was on tire, and the fellows were prodding about with their bayonets to discover you.”
“And who 's to perform Captain Bubbleton?” asked I, venturing for once to humor his absurdity.