“The newspapers!” I cried, springing out of bed at once. “Let me have them. What's the news?”
“The news is, sir,” Hinge answered, standing in attitude of attention, and smiling like a happy Gargoyle—“the news is, sir, as the Italians is playing Old Harry at Milan with them Austrians, and old Louis Philippe turned up at Newhaven, England, yesterday.”
I made my toilet with unusual haste, and in the meantime Hinge brought the papers and read out the news.
“I spent some years among them Austrians, sir,” said Hinge, and then paused suddenly, scratching his head with a look of irritation.
“Yes,” I answered; “what of that?” Something was evidently on the good fellow's mind, and in the midst of his delight he was troubled with it.
“You're a-going out to Italy, ain't you, sir?” he asked. I was shaving at the moment, and contented myself with a mere affirmative grunt. “Well, it's like this, sir,” said Hinge; “I was in a civil capacity when I was in Austria, wasn't I, sir?”
“Well, yes,” I told him, “I suppose so.”
“They couldn't have sworn me in without my knowing it, could they, sir?” Hinge demanded. “Of course I picked up a bit of the language in the course of a year or two, but when I went there I didn't speak a word. When I was first engaged, sir, there was a lot of things said to me as I didn't understand no more than the babe unborn. Now, if I was swore in,” Hinge proceeded, with an air of argument, “and if I was swore in in anything but a civil capacity, that can't be counted as being binding on my heart and conscience. Now, can it, sir?”
“You silly fellow,” I answered, “you couldn't have been sworn in without being aware of it. A man cannot vow and promise that he will do anything without his own knowledge and desire.”
“Well, then, sir,” said Hinge, apparently relieved a little, “if I was swore in—and I might have been, you know, sir—I don't know but what they might have thought they'd done it—but even if it was so, you wouldn't think it binding?”