⸺There is no gistus to it, noodle!—’tis my own name, replied the curate, dipping his hand, as he spoke, into the bason— Tristram! said he, etc. etc. etc. etc. , so Tristram was I called, and Tristram shall I be to the day of my death.
My father followed Susannah , with his nightgown across his arm, with nothing more than his breeches on, fastened through haste with but a single button, and that button through haste thrust only half into the buttonhole.
⸺She has not forgot the name? cried my father, half opening the door.⸺No, no, said the curate, with a tone of intelligence.⸺And the child is better, cried Susannah .⸺And how does your mistress? As well, said Susannah , as can be expected.—Pish! said my father, the button of his breeches slipping out of the buttonhole—So that whether the interjection was levelled at Susannah , or the buttonhole—whether Pish was an interjection of contempt or an interjection of modesty, is a doubt, and must be a doubt till I shall have time to write the three following favourite chapters, that is, my chapter of chambermaids , my chapter of pishes , and my chapter of buttonholes .
All the light I am able to give the reader at present is this, that the moment my father cried Pish! he whisk’d himself about—and with his breeches held up by one hand, and his nightgown thrown across the arm of the other, he turned along the gallery to bed, something slower than he came.