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.