"You can't mistake him; the most impudent-looking vulgarian in England. His name is Nicholas Clam, living in some unheard-of district near the Regent's Park."
"And the lady is his wife, is she?"
"Of course. Who the devil would walk with such a fellow that wasn't obliged to do it by law?"
"Well, my young friend, I'll see what's to be done in this matter, and will bring you, most likely, a solemn declaration that he never shot at a popinjay in his life. And you're really going to end the conversation without asking me for a loan? You're not going to be like Virtus, post nummos after the siller, as a body may say?"
"No, not to-day, thank you. The governor keeps me rather short just now, and won't come down handsome till I'm married; but"—
"So you've lost that and the girl too—the lass and the tocher, as a body may say—all by the lies of a blackguard on the top of a coach? Ye're a wild lad, John Chatterton, and so vale, et memor esto mei—au revoir, as a body may say."
The major turned away on warlike thoughts intent, that is to say, with the intention of finding out Mr Clam, and enquiring into the circumstances of the insult to his friend. Mr Chatterton was also on the point of hurrying off, when a gentleman, who had overheard the last sentence of the sonorous-voiced major's parting speech, stopped suddenly, as if struck by what was said, and politely addressed the youth.
"I believe, sir, I heard the name of Chatterton mentioned by the gentleman who has just left you?"
"Yes, he was speaking of him."
"Of your regiment, sir?"