He laughed and looked roguish. "My father--that's my father--would come.
He's just come back from India. He says all the wits used to come here,--
Mr. Sheridan, Captain Morris, Colonel Hanger, Professor Porson. I told
him your name, and that you used to be very kind to me when I first went
to Smithfield. I've left now; I'm to have a private tutor. I say, I've
got such a jolly pony. It's better fun than old Smile."

Here the whiskered gentleman, Newcome's father, pointing to a waiter to
follow him with his glass of sherry-and-water, strode across the room
twirling his mustachios, and came up to the table where we sate, making a
salutation with his hat in a very stately and polite manner, so that
Hoskins himself was, as it were, obliged to bow; the glee-singers
murmured among themselves (their eyes rolling over their glasses towards
one another as they sucked brandy-and water), and that mischievous little
wag, little Nadab the Improvisatore (who had just come in), began to
mimic him, feeling his imaginary whiskers, after the manner of the
stranger, and flapping about his pocket-handkerchief in the most
ludicrous manner. Hoskins checked this ribaldry by sternly looking
towards Nadab, and at the same time called upon the gents to give their
orders, the waiter being in the room, and Mr. Bellew about to sing a
song.

Newcome's father came up and held out his hand to me. I dare say I
blushed, for I had been comparing him to the admirable Harley in the
Critic, and had christened him Don Ferolo Whiskerandos.

He spoke in a voice exceedingly soft and pleasant, and with a cordiality
so simple and sincere, that my laughter shrank away ashamed, and gave
place to a feeling much more respectful and friendly. In youth, you see,