Chapter C: H a P. LXXV

WHEN my uncle _Toby_ and the corporal had marched down to the bottom of the avenue, they recollected their business lay the other way; so they faced about and marched up straight to Mrs. _Wadman_’s door.

I warrant your honour; said the corporal, touching his _Montero_-cap with his hand, as he passed him in order to give a knock at the door——My uncle _Toby_, contrary to his invariable way of treating his faithful servant, said nothing good or bad: the truth was, he had not altogether marshal’d his ideas; he wish’d for another conference, and as the corporal was mounting up the three steps before the door—he hem’d twice—a portion of my uncle _Toby_’s most modest spirits fled, at each expulsion, towards the corporal; he stood with the rapper of the door suspended for a full minute in his hand, he scarce knew why. _Bridget_ stood perdue within, with her finger and her thumb upon the latch, benumb’d with expectation; and Mrs _Wadman_, with an eye ready to be deflowered again, sat breathless behind the window-curtain of her bed-chamber, watching their approach.

_Trim!_ said my uncle _Toby_——but as he articulated the word, the minute expired, and _Trim_ let fall the rapper.

My uncle _Toby_ perceiving that all hopes of a conference were knock’d on the head by it——whistled Lillabullero.