Mr.Taplow did not think fit to tell his guest that the house Sir Brian used--the Blue house--was the Roebuck, not the King's Arms.

Might not the gentlemen be of different politics?
Mr.Taplow's wine knew none.
Some of the jolliest fellows in all Newcome use the Boscawen Room at the King's Arms as their club, and pass numberless merry evenings and crack countless jokes there.
Duff, the baker; old Mr.Vidler, when he can get away from his medical labours (and his hand shakes, it must be owned, very much now, and his nose is very red); Parrot, the auctioneer; and that amusing dog, Tom Potts, the talented reporter of the Independent--were pretty constant attendants at the King's Arms; and Colonel Newcome's dinner was not over before some of these gentlemen knew what dishes he had had; how he had called for a bottle of sherry and a bottle of claret, like a gentleman; how he had paid the postboys, and travelled with a servant like a top-sawyer; that he was come to shake hands with an old nurse and relative of his family.

Every one of those jolly Britons thought well of the Colonel for his affectionateness and liberality, and contrasted it with the behaviour of the Tory Baronet--their representative.
His arrival made a sensation in the place.

The Blue Club at the Roebuck discussed it, as well as the uncompromising Liberals at the King's Arms.
Mr.Speers, Sir Brian's agent, did not know how to act, and advised Sir Brian by the next night's mail, The Reverend Dr.Bulders, the rector, left his card.
Meanwhile it was not gain or business, but only love and gratitude, which brought Thomas Newcome to his father's native town.

Their dinner over, away went the Colonel and Clive, guided by the ostler, their previous messenger, to the humble little tenement which Thomas Newcome's earliest friend inhabited.