“He’s a great character,” whispered that unlucky King of Corpus to his neighbour the Colonel; “was a Captain in the army. We call him the General. Captain Costigan, will you take something to drink?”
“Bedad, I will,” says the Captain, “and I’ll sing ye a song tu.”
And, having procured a glass of whisky-and-water from the passing waiter, the poor old man, settling his face into a horrid grin, and leering, as he was wont when he gave what he called one of his prime songs, began his music.
The unlucky wretch, who scarcely knew what he was doing or saying, selected one of the most outrageous performances of his répertoire, fired off a tipsy howl by way of overture, and away he went. At the end of the second verse the Colonel started up, clapping on his hat, seizing his stick, and looking as ferocious as though he had been going to do battle with a Pindaree.
“Silence!” he roared out.
“Hear, hear!” cried certain wags at a farther table. “Go on, Costigan!” said others.
“Go on!” cries the Colonel, in his high voice trembling with anger. “Does any gentleman say ‘Go On?’ Does any man who has a wife and sisters, or children at home, say ‘Go on’ to such disgusting ribaldry as this? Do you dare, sir, to call yourself a gentleman, and to say that you hold the King’s commission, and to sit down amongst Christians and men of honour, and defile the ears of young boys with this wicked balderdash?”
“Why do you bring young boys here, old boy?” cries a voice of the malcontents.
“Why? Because I thought I was coming to a society of gentlemen,” cried out the indignant Colonel. “Because I never could have believed that Englishmen could meet together and allow a man, and an old man, so to disgrace himself. For shame, you old wretch! Go home to your bed, you hoary old sinner! And for my part, I’m not sorry that my son should see, for once in his life, to what shame and degradation and dishonour, drunkenness and whisky may bring a man. Never mind the change, sir!—Curse the change!” says the Colonel, facing the amazed waiter. “Keep it till you see me in this place again; which will be never—by George, never!” And shouldering his stick, and scowling round at the company of scared bacchanalians, the indignant gentleman stalked away, his boy after him.
Clive seemed rather shamefaced; but I fear the rest of the company looked still more foolish.