It was not till my uncle Toby had knocked the ashes out of his third pipe that corporal Trim returned from the inn, and gave him the following account:

“I despaired at first,” said the corporal, “of being able to bring back to your honour any kind of intelligence concerning the poor sick lieutenant.” “Is he in the army, then?” said my uncle Toby. “He is,” said the corporal. “And in what regiment?” said my uncle Toby. “I’ll tell your honour,” replied the corporal, “everything straight forwards, as I learnt it.” “Then, Trim, I’ll fill another pipe,” said my uncle Toby, “and not interrupt thee till thou hast done; so sit down at thy ease, Trim, in the window seat, and begin thy story again.” The corporal made his old bow, which generally spoke as plain as a bow could speak it—your honour is good:—and having done that, he sat down as he was ordered, and began the story to my uncle Toby over again, in pretty nearly the same words. “I despaired at first,” said the corporal, “of being able to bring back any intelligence to your honour about the lieutenant and his son: for when I asked where his servant was, from whom I made myself sure of knowing everything which was proper to be asked,”—“That’s a right distinction, Trim,” said my uncle Toby,—“I was answered, an’ please your honour, that he had no servant with him; that he had come to the inn with hired horses, which, on finding himself unable to proceed (to join, I suppose, the regiment), he had dismissed the morning after he came ‘If I get better, my dear,’ said he, as he gave his purse to his son to pay the man, ‘we can hire horses from hence.’ ‘But, alas! the poor gentleman will never get from hence,’ said the landlady to me, ‘for I heard the death-watch all night long; and when he dies, the youth, his son, will certainly die with him; for he is broken-hearted already.’

“I was hearing this account,” continued the corporal, “when the youth came into the kitchen, to order the thin toast the landlord spoke of. ‘But I will do it for my father myself,’ said the youth. ‘Pray let me save you the trouble, young gentleman,’ said I, taking up a fork for that purpose, and offering him my chair to sit down by the fire, whilst I did it. ‘I believe, sir,’ said he, very modestly, ‘I can please him best myself.’ ‘I am sure,’ said I, ‘his honour will not like the toast the worse for being toasted by an old soldier.’ The youth took hold of my hand, and instantly burst into tears.” “Poor youth!” said my uncle Toby, “he has been bred up from an infant in the army, and the name of a soldier, Trim, sounded in his ears like the name of a friend; I wish I had him here.”

“I never in the longest march,” said the corporal, “had so great a mind to my dinner, as I had to cry with him for company: what could be the matter with me, an’ please your honour?” “Nothing in the world, Trim,” said my uncle Toby, blowing his nose, “but that thou art a good-natured fellow.”

“When I gave him the toast,” continued the corporal, “I thought it was proper to tell him I was Captain Shandy’s servant, and that your honour (though a stranger) was extremely concerned for his father: and that if there was anything in your house or cellar,”—“And thou mightest have added my purse too,” said my uncle Toby,—“he was heartily welcome to it: he made a very low bow (which was meant to your honour), but no answer, for his heart was so full—so he went upstairs with the toast: ‘I warrant you, my dear,’ said I, as I opened the kitchen door, ‘your father will be well again.’ Mr. Yorick’s curate was smoking a pipe by the kitchen fire; but said not a word, good or bad, to comfort the youth. I thought it wrong,” added the corporal. “I think so too,” said my uncle Toby.

“When the lieutenant had taken his glass of sack and toast, he felt himself a little revived, and sent down into the kitchen to let me know that in about ten minutes he should be glad if I would step upstairs. ‘I believe,’ said the landlord, ‘he is going to say his prayers, for there was a book laid upon the chair by his bed-side, and as I shut the door I saw his son take up a cushion.’

“ ‘I thought,’ said the curate, ‘that you gentlemen of the army, Mr. Trim, never said your prayers at all.’ ‘I heard the poor gentleman say his prayers last night,’ said the landlady, ‘very devoutly, and with my own ears, or I could not have believed it.’ ‘Are you sure of it?’ replied the curate. ‘A soldier, an’ please your reverence,’ said I, ‘prays as often (of his own accord) as a parson; and when he is fighting for his king, and for his own life, and for his honour too, he has the most reason to pray to God of anyone in the whole world.’ ” “ ’Twas well said of thee, Trim,” said my uncle Toby. “ ‘But when a soldier,’ said I, ‘an’