“Tom,” said he to his brother, who at that moment came out of his private room, “here’s a young gentleman who imagines that Braham lived in the time of Isaac and Jacob.”
“If he didn’t, his forefathers did,” replied Uncle Tom; at which retort, from the head of the firm, both Mr. Curling and Mr. Spratling laughed loudly, the smaller salary being more boisterous than the larger.
“Braham,” said uncle Dick, addressing me, “was a great singer, who composed the ‘Death of Nelson,’ worthy, sir, of Charles Dibdin. He was, besides, the best Isaac Mendoza the world will ever see.”
“Here comes the phaeton,” cried uncle Tom.
“I thought you asked me if I had ever heard of Abraham,” I said.
“Fudge! Abraham, indeed! I am talking of little Braham who used to sing—” and to my infinite amusement, and to his brother’s great concern, he struck an attitude, clapped his hand on his heart, and frowning at a framed advertisement of the British Imperial Marine Insurance Company, sang in a small clear tenor, the first bars of “’Twas in Trafalgar’s bay!” This done, he called out, “Now then, gentlemen, let none of you pretend never to have heard of Braham,” marched to the phaeton and climbed into the front seat.
“Braham is one of his heroes,” uncle Tom whispered to me as we followed. “They were friends, I believe, twenty-five years ago. Dick was a good deal among the players and literary men of those days, and when he is in the vein, his conversation is very amusing.”
We jumped into the phaeton, and drove to Grove End.
My aunt and Conny gave uncle Dick a hearty greeting. I confess I was surprised to see how completely he altered his manners when with the ladies; how courteous, how affable he was, how agreeably he talked. He tried to get up a laugh against me, by telling them how I had mistaken Braham the singer for Abraham the patriarch; but whether it was that I had my aunt’s and cousin’s sympathy, or that they had never heard of Braham, my big uncle’s well-meant attempt missed fire. I gave him a look to let him know that what laugh there was, was on my side. Conny asked very affectionately after Theresa.
“She wants to be tamed,” was the answer. “She’s growing desperately wild. Her latest amusement is pistol-shooting, and I give you my word she is the neatest shot that can be imagined. She hangs a ball to a branch, and cuts the thread eight times out of ten, at twenty paces.”