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—Or forces the lines? cried my uncle, rising up, and pushing his crutch like a pike—Or facing a platoon, cried Trim, presenting his stick like a firelock—Or when he marches up the glacis, cried my uncle Toby, looking warm and setting his foot upon his stool.—
CHAP. XIX.
My father was returned from his walk to the fish-pond—and opened the parlour-door in the very height of the attack, just as my uncle Toby was marching up the glacis—Trim recovered his arms—never was my uncle Toby caught riding at such a desperate rate in his life! Alas! my uncle Toby! had not a weightier matter called forth all the ready eloquence of my father—how hadst thou
