[112]
There is no christian name in the world, said the curate, beginning with Tris—but Tristram. Then 'tis Tristram-gistus, quoth Susannah.
—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, &c. &c. &c. &c. so Tristram was I called, and Tristram shall I be to the day of my death.
My father followed Susannah with his night-gown 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 button-hole.
—She has not forgot the name, cried my father, half opening the door—No,no,
