“Dear Anna, darling Anna, oh, I am so delighted! We have been so wretched about poor Sir Cradock. And now his brother is coming to mind him, with such delightful children! We thought he was dead, oh, so many years! What a gracious providence!”
“Haw!” said Nowell Corklemore.
“The devil!” said Bailey Kettledrum, and Rufus caught the re–echo, but hoped it might be a mistake.
Then they all came forward, gushing, rushing, rapturous to embrace him.
“Oh, Dr. Hutton, surely this is too good news to be true!”
“I think not,” said Rufus Hutton, mystical and projecting, “I really trust it is not. But I thought you must have heard it, from your close affinity, otherwise I should have told you the moment I came in; but now I hope this new arrival will heal over all—make good, I mean, all family misunderstandings.”
“Colonel Clayton Nowell,” said Mr. Nowell Corklemore, conclusively, and with emphasis, “Colonel Clayton Nowell was shot dead outside the barracks at Mhow, on the 25th day of June, sir, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and fifty–six. Correct me, sir, if I am wrong.”
“Then,” said Rufus, “I venture to correct you at once.”
“Shot, sir,” continued Corklemore, “as I am, I may say—haw,—in a position to prove, by a man called Abdoollah Manjee, believed to be a Mussulman. Colonel Clayton Nowell, sir, commanding officer in command of Her Majestyʼs Companyʼs native regiment, No· One hundred and sixty–three, who was called,—excuse me, sir, designated, the ‘father of his regiment,’ because he had so many illegitimate—haw, I beg your pardon, ladies—because of his—ha, yes,—patriarchal manners, sir, and kindly disposition,—he—haw, where was I?”
“I am sure I canʼt say,” said Rufus.