"See, here's the glass on the floor yet, and a great stain of claret on the carpet." "Oh, father!" says Clive, hanging his head down, "I know I shouldn't have done it.

But Barnes Newcome would provoke the patience of Job; and I couldn't bear to have my father insulted." "I am big enough to fight my own battles, my boy," the Colonel said good-naturedly, putting his hand on the lad's damp head.

"How your head throbs! If Barnes laughed at my singing, depend upon it, sir, there was something ridiculous in it, and he laughed because he could not help it.
If he behaved ill, we should not; and to a man who is eating our salt too, and is of our blood." "He is ashamed of our blood, father," cries Clive, still indignant.
"We ought to be ashamed of doing wrong.

We must go and ask his pardon.
Once when I was a young man in India," the father continued very gravely, "some hot words passed at mess--not such an insult as that of last night; I don't think I could have quite borne that--and people found fault with me for forgiving the youngster who had uttered the offensive expressions over his wine.

Some of my acquaintance sneered at my courage, and that is a hard imputation for a young fellow of spirit to bear.