The tables were now turned, and it was Woolsey's turn to be alarmed.
“Pooh! pooh! I WAS angry,” said he, “because you abuse Mrs. Walker, who's an angel on earth; but I'm very willing to apologise. I say—come—let me take your measure for some new clothes, eh! Mr. B.?”
“I'll come to your shop,” answered the literary man, quite appeased. “Silence! they're beginning another song.”
The songs, which I don't attempt to describe (and, upon my word and honour, as far as I can understand matters, I believe to this day that Mrs. Walker was only an ordinary singer)—the songs lasted a great deal longer than I liked; but I was nailed, as it were, to the spot, having agreed to sup at Knightsbridge barracks with Fitz-Urse, whose carriage was ordered at eleven o'clock.
“My dear Mr. Fitz-Boodle,” said our old host to me, “you can do me the greatest service in the world.”
“Speak, sir!” said I.
“Will you ask your honourable and gallant friend, the Captain, to drive home Mr. Squinny to Brompton?”
“Can't Mr. Squinny get a cab?”
Sir George looked particularly arch. “Generalship, my dear young friend—a little harmless generalship. Mr. Squinny will not give much for MY opinion of my pupil, but he will value very highly the opinion of the Honourable Mr. FitzUrse.”
For a moral man, was not the little knight a clever fellow? He had bought Mr. Squinny for a dinner worth ten shillings, and for a ride in a carriage with a lord's son. Squinny was carried to Brompton, and set down at his aunts' door, delighted with his new friends, and exceedingly sick with a cigar they had made him smoke.