“I will have some,—by —— I will,” the intruder was roaring out, as Sir Francis came forward. “Hullo! Clavering, I say I’m come to have some wine with you; hay! old boy—hay, old corkscrew? Get us a bottle of the yellow seal, you old thief—the very best—a hundred rupees a dozen, and no mistake.”
The host reflected a moment over his company. There is only Welbore, Pendennis, and those two lads, he thought—and with a forced laugh and a piteous look, he said,—“Well, Altamont, come in. I am very glad to see you, I’m sure.”
Colonel Altamont, for the intelligent reader has doubtless long ere this discovered in the stranger His Excellency the Ambassador of the Nawaub of Lucknow, reeled into the dining-room, with a triumphant look towards Jeames, the footman, which seemed to say, “There, sir, what do you think of that? Now, am I a gentleman or no?” and sank down into the first vacant chair. Sir Francis Clavering timidly stammered out the Colonel’s name to his guest Mr. Welbore Welbore, and his Excellency began drinking wine forthwith and gazing round upon the company, now with the most wonderful frowns, and anon with the blandest smiles, and hiccupped remarks encomiastic of the drink which he was imbibing.
“Very singular man. Has resided long in a native court in India,” Strong said, with great gravity, the Chevalier’s presence of mind never deserting him—“in those Indian courts they get very singular habits.”
“Very,” said Major Pendennis, drily, and wondering what in goodness’ name was the company into which he had got.
Mr. Foker was pleased with the new-comer. “It’s the man who would sing the Malay song at the Back Kitchen,” he whispered to Pen. “Try this pine, sir,” he then said to Colonel Altamont, “it’s uncommonly fine.”
“Pines—I’ve seen ’em feed pigs on pines,” said the Colonel.
“All the Nawaub of Lucknow’s pigs are fed on pines,” Strong whispered to Major Pendennis.
“Oh, of course,” the Major answered. Sir Francis Clavering was, in the meanwhile, endeavouring to make an excuse to his brother-guest for the new-comer’s condition, and muttered something regarding Altamont, that he was an extraordinary character, very eccentric, very—had Indian habits—didn’t understand the rules of English society—to which old Welbore, a shrewd old gentleman, who drank his wine with great regularity, said, “that seemed pretty clear.”
Then the Colonel, seeing Pen’s honest face, regarded it for a while with as much steadiness as became his condition; and said, “I know you, too, young fellow. I remember you. Baymouth ball, by Jingo. Wanted to fight the Frenchman. I remember you;” and he laughed, and he squared with his fists, and seemed hugely amused in the drunken depths of his mind, as these recollections passed, or, rather, reeled across it.