“Sic a wife as Willie had,
I would na gie a button for her.
“But suppose, Benjamin, I should be so insane so stark, staring, ridiculously mad.” Here
Uncle Timothy paused to see what effect his budget of suppositions had upon Mr Bosky's nerves.
But Mr. Bosky kept his nerves well strung and his countenance steady, and let Uncle Timothy go on supposing.
“Suppose I should all at once depart from the sober gravity that belongs to my years, and exhibit myself in a blue coat and brass buttons—” Uncle Timothy again paused; but he might as well have whistled jigs to a milestone. The lauréat continued immoveable and mute.
“Benjamin—Benjamin Bosky!” cried Uncle Timothy, nettled at his provoking imperturbability, “if, out of a mistaken civility to your country cousins, and to rid myself of these annoying importunities, I should invite the caricaturist to pillory me in the print-shops—a blue coat and brass buttons are not the journey-work of twenty minutes—for by that time I must be equipped to start: And, to swaddle myself in a ready-made fit, too long at the top, and too short at the bottom—like the Irishman's blanket! No, Benjamin Bosky! For, though of figure I have nothing to boast—” here Uncle Timothy unconsciously (?) glanced at his comely person in a mirror—“I do not intend to qualify myself for a chair on the fifth of November.”
Mr Bosky still maintained a respectful silence.
“Therefore, Benjamin, were I inclined to forego my scruples, and oblige you for this once”—as Uncle Timothy saw the apparent impossibility of obliging, he spoke more freely of his possible compliance—“the thing, you see, is absolutely impracticable.”
Mr. Bosky looked anxiously at the clock, and Uncle Tim quite exulted that, while starting an insurmountable obstacle, he had dexterously—handsomely slipped out of a scrape.