THE CHASE.
On the morning after my visit to the boarding-house, I received a few
hurried lines from Curzon, informing me that no time was to be lost in
joining the regiment—that a grand fancy ball was about to be given by
the officers of the Dwarf frigate, then stationed off Dunmore; who,
when inviting the ——, specially put in a demand for my well-known
services, to make it to go off, and concluding with an extract from the
Kilkenny Moderator, which ran thus—
“An intimation has just reached us, from a quarter on which we can
place the fullest reliance, that the celebrated amateur performer, Mr.
Lorrequer, may shortly be expected amongst us; from the many accounts
we have received of this highly-gifted gentleman’s powers, we
anticipate a great treat to the lovers of the drama,” &c. &c. “So you
see, my dear Hal,” continued Curzon, “thy vocation calls thee;
therefore come, and come quickly—provide thyself with a black satin
costume, slashed with light blue—point lace collar and ruffles—a
Spanish hat looped in front—and, if possible, a long rapier, with a
flap hilt.—Carden is not here; so you may show your face under any
colour with perfect impunity.—Yours from the side scenes,
“C. Curzon.”
This clever epistle sufficed to show me that the gallant —th had gone
clean theatrical mad; and although from my “last appearance on any
stage,” it might be supposed I should feel no peculiar desire to repeat
the experiment, yet the opportunity of joining during Col. Carden’s
absence, was too tempting to resist, and I at once made up my mind to
set out, and, without a moment’s delay, hurried across the street to
the coach office, to book myself an inside in the mail of that night;
fortunately no difficulty existed in my securing the seat, for the
way-bill was a perfect blank, and I found myself the only person who
had, as yet, announced himself a passenger. On returning to my hotel, I
found O’Flaherty waiting for me; he was greatly distressed on hearing
my determination to leave town—explained how he had been catering for
my amusement for the week to come—that a picnic to the Dargle was
arranged in a committee of the whole house, and a boating party, with a
dinner at the Pigeon-house, was then under consideration; resisting,
however, such extreme temptations, I mentioned the necessity of my at
once proceeding to headquarters, and all other reasons for my
precipitancy failing, concluded with that really knock-down argument,
“I have taken my place;” this, I need scarcely add, finished the
matter—at least I have never known it fail in such cases. Tell your
friends that your wife is hourly expecting to be confined; your
favourite child is in the measles—you best friend waiting your aid in
an awkward scrape—your one vote only wanting to turn the scale in an
election. Tell them, I say, each or all of these, or a hundred more
like them, and to any one you so speak, the answer is—“Pooh, pooh, my
dear fellow, never fear—don’t fuss yourself—take it easy—to-morrow will
do just as well.” If, on the other hand, however, you reject such
flimsy excuses, and simply say, “I’m booked in the mail,” the
opposition at once falls to the ground, and your quondam antagonist,
who was ready to quarrel with you, is at once prepared to assist in
packing your portmanteau.
Having soon satisfied my friend Tom that resistance was in vain, I
promised to eat an early dinner with him at Morrisson’s, and spent the
better part of the morning in putting down a few notes of my
Confessions, as well as the particulars of Mr. Daly’s story, which, I
believe, I half or wholly promised my readers at the conclusion of my
last chapter; but which I must defer to a more suitable opportunity,
when mentioning the next occasion of my meeting him on the southern
circuit.
My dispositions were speedily made. I was fortunate in securing the
exact dress my friend’s letter alluded to among the stray costumes of
Fishamble-street; and rich in the possession of the only “properties”
it has been my lot to acquire, I despatched my treasure to the coach
office, and hastened to Morrisson’s, it being by this time nearly five
o’clock. There, true to time, I found O’Flaherty deep in the perusal of
the bill, along which figured the novel expedients for dining, I had
been in the habit of reading in every Dublin hotel since my boyhood.
“Mock turtle, mutton, gravy, roast beef and potatoes—shoulder of mutton
and potatoes!—ducks and peas, potatoes!! ham and chicken, cutlet steak
and potatoes!!! apple tart and cheese:” with a slight cadenza of a sigh
over the distant glories of Very, or still better the “Freres,” we sat
down to a very patriarchal repast, and what may be always had par
excellence in Dublin, a bottle of Sneyd’s claret.
Poor Tom’s spirits were rather below their usual pitch; and although he
made many efforts to rally and appear gay, he could not accomplish it.
However, we chatted away over old times and old friends, and forgetting
all else but the topics we talked of, the time-piece over the chimney
first apprised me that two whole hours had gone by, and that it was now
seven o’clock, the very hour the coach was to start. I started up at
once, and notwithstanding all Tom’s representations of the
impossibility of my being in time, had despatched waiters in different
directions for a jarvey, more than ever determined upon going; so often
is it that when real reasons for our conduct are wanting, any casual or
chance opposition confirms us in an intention which before was but
uncertain. Seeing me so resolved, Tom, at length, gave way, and advised
my pursuing the mail, which must be now gone at least ten minutes, and
which, with smart driving, I should probably overtake before getting
free of the city, as they have usually many delays in so doing. I at
once ordered out the “yellow post-chaise,” and before many minutes had
elapsed, what, with imprecation and bribery, I started in pursuit of
his Majesty’s Cork and Kilkenny mail coach, then patiently waiting in
the court-yard of the Post Office.
“Which way now, your honor?” said a shrill voice from the dark—for such
the night had already become, and threatened with a few heavy drops of
straight rain, the fall of a tremendous shower.
“The Naas road,” said I; “and, harkye, my fine fellow, if you overtake
the coach in half an hour, I’ll double your fare.”
“Be gorra, I’ll do my endayvour,” said the youth; at the same time
instant dashing in both spurs, we rattled down Nassau-street at a very
respectable pace for harriers. Street after street we passed, and at
last I perceived we had got clear of the city, and were leaving the
long line of lamp-lights behind us. The night was now pitch dark. I
could not see any thing whatever. The quick clattering of the wheels,
the sharp crack of the postillion’s whip, or the still sharper tone of
his “gee hup,” showed me we were going at a tremendous pace, had I not
even had the experience afforded by the frequent visits my head paid to
the roof of the chaise, so often as we bounded over a stone, or
splashed through a hollow. Dark and gloomy as it was, I constantly let
down the window, and with half my body protruded, endeavores to catch a
glimpse of the “Chase;” but nothing could I see. The rain now fell in
actual torrents; and a more miserable night it is impossible to
conceive.
After about an hour so spent, he at last came to a check, so sudden and
unexpected on my part, that I was nearly precipitated, harlequin
fashion, through the front window. Perceiving that we no longer moved,
and suspecting that some part of our tackle had given way, I let down
the sash, and cried out—“Well now, my lad, any thing wrong?” My
questions was, however, unheard; and although, amid the steam arising
from the wet and smoking horses, I could perceive several figures
indistinctly moving about, I could not distinguish what they were
doing, nor what they said. A laugh I certainly did hear, and heartily
cursed the unfeeling wretch, as I supposed him to be, who was enjoying
himself at my disappointment. I again endeavoured to find out what had
happened, and called out still louder than before.
“We are at Ra’coole, your honor,” said the boy, approaching the door of
the chaise, “and she’s only beat us by hafe a mile.”
“Who the devil is she?” said I.
“The mail, your honor, is always a female in Ireland.”
“Then why do you stop now? You’re not going to feed I suppose?”
“Of course not, your honor, it’s little feeding troubles these bastes,
any how, but they tell me the road is so heavy we’ll never take the
chaise over the next stage without leaders.”
“Without leaders!” said I. “Pooh! my good fellow, no humbugging, four
horses for a light post-chaise and no luggage; come get up, and no
nonsense.” At this moment a man approached the window with a lantern in
his hand, and so strongly represented the dreadful state of the roads
from the late rains—the length of the stage—the frequency of accidents
latterly from under-horsing, &c. &c. that I yielded, a reluctant
assent, and ordered out the leaders, comforting myself the while, that
considering the inside fare of the coach, I made such efforts to
overtake, was under a pound, and that time was no object to me, I
certainly was paying somewhat dearly for my character for resolution.
At last we got under way once more, and set off cheered by a tremendous
shout from at least a dozen persons, doubtless denizens of that
interesting locality, amid which I once again heard the laugh that had
so much annoyed me already. The rain was falling, if possible, more
heavily than before, and had evidently set in for the entire night.
Throwing myself back into a corner of the “leathern convenience,” I
gave myself up to the full enjoyment of the Rouchefoucauld maxim, that
there is always a pleasure felt in the misfortunes of even our best
friends, and certainly experienced no small comfort in my distress, by
contrasting my present position with that of my two friends in the
saddle, as they sweltered on through mud and mire, rain and storm. On
we went, splashing, bumping, rocking, and jolting, till I began at last
to have serious thoughts of abdicating the seat and betaking myself to
the bottom of the chaise, for safety and protection. Mile after mile
succeeded, and as after many a short and fitful slumber, which my
dreams gave an apparent length to, I woke only to find myself still in
pursuit—the time seemed so enormously protracted that I began to fancy
my whole life was to be passed in the dark, in chase of the Kilkenny
mail, as we read in the true history of the flying Dutchman, who, for
his sins of impatience—like mine—spent centuries vainly endeavouring to
double the Cape, or the Indian mariner in Moore’s beautiful ballad, of
whom we are told as—
“Many a day to night gave way,
And many a morn succeeded,
Yet still his flight, by day and night,
That restless mariner speeded.”
This might have been all very well in the tropics, with a smart craft
and doubtless plenty of sea store—but in a chaise, at night, and on the
Naas road, I humbly suggest I had all the worse of the parallel.
At last the altered sound of the wheels gave notice of our approach to
a town, and after about twenty minutes; rattling over the pavement we
entered what I supposed, correctly, to be Naas. Here I had long since
determined my pursuit should cease. I had done enough, and more than
enough, to vindicate my fame against any charge of irresolution as to
leaving Dublin, and was bethinking me of the various modes of
prosecuting my journey on the morrow, when we drew up suddenly at the
door of the Swan. The arrival of a chaise and four at a small country
town inn, suggests to the various employees therein, any thing rather
than the traveller in pursuit of the mail, and so the moment I arrived,
I was assailed with innumerable proffers of horses, supper, bed, &c. My
anxious query was thrice repeated in vain, “When did the coach pass?”
“The mail,” replied the landlord at length. “Is it the down mail?”
Not understanding the technical, I answered, “Of course not the
Down—the Kilkenny and Cork mail.”
“From Dublin, sir?”
“Yes, from Dublin.”
“Not arrived yet, sir, nor will it for three quarters of an hour; they
never leave Dublin till a quarter past seven; that is, in fact, half
past, and their time here is twenty minutes to eleven.”
“Why, you stupid son of a boot-top, we have been posting on all night
like the devil, and all this time the coach has been ten miles behind
us.”
“Well, we’ve cotch them any how,” said the urchin, as he disengaged
himself from his wet saddle, and stood upon the ground; “and it is not
my fault that the coach is not before us.”
With a satisfactory anathema upon all innkeepers, waiters, hostlers,
and post-boys, with a codicil including coach-proprietors, I followed
the smirking landlord into a well-lighted room, with a blazing fire,
when having ordered supper, I soon regained my equanimity.
My rasher and poached eggs, all Naas could afford me, were speedily
despatched, and as my last glass, from my one pint of sherry, was
poured out, the long expected coach drew up. A minute after the
coachman entered to take his dram, followed by the guard; a more
lamentable spectacle of condensed moisture cannot be conceived; the
rain fell from the entire circumference of his broad-brimmed hat, like
the ever-flowing drop from the edge of an antique fountain; his
drab-coat had become a deep orange hue, while his huge figure loomed
still larger, as he stood amid a nebula of damp, that would have made
an atmosphere for the Georgium Sidus.
“Going on to-night, sir?” said he, addressing me; “severe weather, and
no chance of its clearing, but of course you’re inside.”
“Why, there is very little doubt of that,” said I. “Are you nearly full
inside?”
“Only one, sir; but he seems a real queer chap; made fifty inquiries at
the office if he could not have the whole inside to himself, and when
he heard that one place had been taken—your’s, I believe, sir—he seemed
like a scalded bear.”
“You don’t know his name then?”
“No, sir, he never gave a name at the office, and his only luggage is
two brown paper parcels, without any ticket, and he has them inside;
indeed he never lets them from him even for a second.”
Here the guard’s horn, announcing all ready, interrupted our colloquy,
and prevented my learning any thing further of my fellow-traveller,
whom, however, I at once set down in my own mind for some confounded
old churl that made himself comfortable every where, without ever
thinking of any one else’s convenience.
As I passed from the inn door to the coach, I once more congratulated
myself that I was about to be housed from the terrific storm of wind
and rain that railed about.
“Here’s the step, sir,” said the guard, “get in, sir, two minutes late
already.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said I, as I half fell over the legs of my
unseen companion. “May I request leave to pass you?” While he made way
for me for this purpose, I perceived that he stooped down towards the
guard, and said something, who from his answer had evidently been
questioned as to who I was. “And how did he get here, if he took his
place in Dublin?” asked the unknown.
“Came half an hour since, sir, in a chaise and four,” said the guard,
as he banged the door behind him, and closed the interview.
Whatever might have been the reasons for my fellow-traveller’s anxiety
about my name and occupation, I knew not, yet could not help feeling
gratified at thinking that as I had not given my name at the coach
office, I was a great a puzzle to him as he to me.
“A severe night, sir,” said I, endeavouring to break ground in
conversation.
“Mighty severe,” briefly and half crustily replied the unknown, with a
richness of brogue, that might have stood for a certificate of baptism
in Cork or its vicinity.
“And a bad road too, sir,” said I, remembering my lately accomplished
stage.
“That’s the reason I always go armed,” said the unknown, clinking at
the same moment something like the barrel of a pistol.
Wondering somewhat at his readiness to mistake my meaning, I felt
disposed to drop any further effort to draw him out, and was about to
address myself to sleep, as comfortably as I could.
“I’ll jist trouble ye to lean aff that little parcel there, sir,” said
he, as he displaced from its position beneath my elbow, one of the
paper packages the guard had already alluded to.
In complying with this rather gruff demand, one of my pocket pistols,
which I carried in my breast pocket, fell out upon his knee, upon which
he immediately started, and asked hurriedly—“and are you armed too?”
“Why, yes,” said I, laughingly; “men of my trade seldom go without
something of this kind.”
“Be gorra, I was just thinking that same,” said the traveller, with a
half sigh to himself.
Why he should or should not have thought so, I never troubled myself to
canvass, and was once more settling myself in my corner, when I was
startled by a very melancholy groan, which seemed to come from the
bottom of my companion’s heart.
“Are you ill, sir?” said I, in a voice of some anxiety.
“You might say that,” replied he—“if you knew who you were talking
to—although maybe you’ve heard enough of me, though you never saw me
till now.”
“Without having that pleasure even yet,” said I, “it would grieve me to
think you should be ill in the coach.”
“May be it might,” briefly replied the unknown, with a species of
meaning in his words I could not then understand. “Did ye never hear
tell of Barney Doyle?” said he.
“Not to my recollection.”
“Then I’m Barney,” said he; “that’s in all the newspapers in the
metropolis; I’m seventeen weeks in Jervis-street hospital, and four in
the Lunatic, and the devil a better after all; you must be a stranger,
I’m thinking, or you’d know me now.”
“Why I do confess, I’ve only been a few hours in Ireland for the last
six months.”
“Ay, that’s the reason; I knew you would not be fond of travelling with
me, if you knew who it was.”
“Why, really,” said I, beginning at the moment to fathom some of the
hints of my companion, “I did not anticipate the pleasure of meeting
you.”
“It’s pleasure ye call it; then there’s no accountin’ for tastes, as
Dr. Colles said, when he saw me bite Cusack Rooney’s thumb off.”
“Bite a man’s thumb off!” said I, in a horror.
“Ay,” said he with a kind of fiendish animation, “in one chop; I wish
you’d see how I scattered the consultation; begad they didn’t wait to
ax for a fee.”
Upon my soul, a very pleasant vicinity, though I. “And, may I ask sir,”
said I, in a very mild and soothing tone of voice, “may I ask the
reason for this singular propensity of yours?”
“There it is now, my dear,” said he, laying his hand upon my knee
familiarly, “that’s just the very thing they can’t make out; Colles
says, it’s all the ceribellum, ye see, that’s inflamed and combusted,
and some of the others think it’s the spine; and more, the muscles; but
my real impression is, the devil a bit they know about it at all.”
“And have they no name for the malady?” said I.
“Oh sure enough they have a name for it.”
“And, may I ask—”
“Why, I think you’d better not, because ye see, maybe I might be
throublesome to ye in the night, though I’ll not, if I can help it; and
it might be uncomfortable to you to be here if I was to get one of the
fits.”
“One of the fits! Why it’s not possible, sir,” said I, “you would
travel in a public conveyance in the state you mention; your friends
surely would not permit it?”
“Why, if they knew, perhaps,” slily responded the interesting invalid,
“if they knew they might not exactly like it, but ye see, I escaped
only last night, and there’ll be a fine hub-bub in the morning, when
they find I’m off; though I’m thinking Rooney’s barking away by this
time.”
“Rooney barking, why, what does that mean?”
“They always bark for a day or two after they’re bit, if the infection
comes first from the dog.”
“You are surely not speaking of hydrophobia,” said I, my hair actually
bristling with horror and consternation.
“Ayn’t I?” replied he; “may be you’ve guessed it though.”
“And have you the malady on you at present?” said I, trembling for the
answer.
“This is the ninth day since I took to biting,” said he gravely,
perfectly unconscious as it appeared of the terror such information was
calculated to convey.
“Any with such a propensity, sir, do you think yourself warranted in
travelling in a public coach, exposing others—”
“You’d better not raise your voice, that way,” quietly responded he,
“if I’m roused, it ’ill be worse for ye, that’s all.”
“Well but,” said I, moderating my zeal, “is it exactly prudent, in your
present delicate state, to undertake a journey?”
“Ah,” said he, with a sigh, “I’ve been longing to see the fox hounds
throw off, near Kilkenny; these three weeks I’ve been thinking of
nothing else; but I’m not sure how my nerves will stand the cry; I
might be throublesome.”
“Upon my soul,” thought I, “I shall not select that morning for my
debut in the field.”
“I hope, sir, there’s no river, or watercourse on this road—any thing
else, I can, I hope, control myself against; but water—running water
particularly—makes me throublesome.”
Well knowing what he meant by the latter phrase, I felt the cold
perspiration settling on my forehead, as I remembered that we must be
within about ten or twelve miles of Leighlin-bridge, where we should
have to pass a very wide river. I strictly concealed this fact from
him, however, and gave him to understand that there was not a well,
brook, or rivulet, for forty miles on either side of us. He now sunk
into a kind of moody silence, broken occasionally by a low muttering
noise, as if speaking to himself—what this might portend, I knew
not—but thought it better, under all circumstances, not to disturb him.
How comfortable my present condition was, I need scarcely
remark—sitting vis a vis to a lunatic, with a pair of pistols in his
possession—who had already avowed his consciousness of his tendency to
do mischief, and his inability to master it; all this in the dark, and
in the narrow limits of a mail-coach, where there was scarcely room for
defence, and no possibility of escape—how heartily I wished myself back
in the Coffee-room at Morrisson’s, with my poor friend Tom—the infernal
chaise, that I cursed a hundred times, would have been an “exchange,”
better than into the Life Guards—ay, even the outside of the coach, if
I could only reach it, would, under present circumstances, be a
glorious alternative to my existing misfortune. What were rain and
storm, thunder and lightning, compared with the chances that awaited me
here?—wet through I should inevitably be, but then I had not yet
contracted the horror of moisture my friend opposite laboured under.
“Ha! what is that? is it possible he can be asleep; is it really a
snore?—Heaven grant that little snort be not what the medical people
call a premonitory symptom—if so, he’ll be in upon me now in no time.
Ah, there it is again; he must be asleep surely; now then is my time or
never.” With these words, muttered to myself, and a heart throbbing
almost audibly at the risk of his awakening, I slowly let down the
window of the coach, and stretching forth my hand, turned the handle
cautiously and slowly; I next disengaged my legs, and by a long
continuous effort of creeping—which I had learned perfectly once, when
practising to go as a boa constrictor to a fancy ball—I withdrew myself
from the seat and reached the step, when I muttered something very like
a thanksgiving to Providence for my rescue. With little difficulty I
now climbed up beside the guard, whose astonishment at my appearance
was indeed considerable—that any man should prefer the out, to the
inside of a coach, in such a night, was rather remarkable; but that the
person so doing should be totally unprovided with a box-coat, or other
similar protection, argued something so strange, that I doubt not, if
he were to decide upon the applicability of the statute of lunacy to a
traveller in the mail, the palm would certainly have been awarded to
me, and not to my late companion. Well, on we rolled, and heavily as
the rain poured down, so relieved did I feel at my change of position,
that I soon fell fast asleep, and never awoke till the coach was
driving up Patrick-street. Whatever solace to my feelings reaching the
outside of the coach might have been attended with at night, the
pleasure I experienced on awaking, was really not unalloyed. More dead
than alive, I sat a mass of wet clothes, like nothing under heaven
except it be that morsel of black and spongy wet cotton at the bottom
of a schoolboy’s ink bottle, saturated with rain, and the black dye of
my coat. My hat too had contributed its share of colouring matter, and
several long black streaks coursed down my “wrinkled front,” giving me
very much the air of an Indian warrior, who had got the first priming
of his war paint. I certainly must have been rueful object, were I only
to judge from the faces of the waiters as they gazed on me when the
coach drew up at Rice and Walsh’s hotel. Cold, wet, and weary as I was,
my curiosity to learn more of my late agreeable companion was strong as
ever within me—perhaps stronger, from the sacrifices his acquaintance
had exacted from me. Before, however, I had disengaged myself from the
pile of trunks and carpet bags I had surrounded myself with—he had got
out of the coach, and all I could catch a glimpse of was the back of a
little short man in a kind of grey upper coat, and long galligaskins on
his legs. He carried his two bundles under his arm, and stepped nimbly
up the steps of the hotel, without turning his head to either side.
“Don’t fancy you shall escape me now, my good friend,” I cried out, as
I sprung from the roof to the ground, with one jump, and hurried after
the great unknown into the coffee-room. By the time I reached it he had
approached the fire, on the table near which, having deposited the
mysterious paper parcels, he was now busily engaged in divesting
himself of his great coat; his face was still turned from me, so that I
had time to appear employed in divesting myself of my wet drapery
before he perceived me; at last the coat was unbuttoned, the gaiters
followed, and throwing them carelessly on a chair, he tucked up the
skirts of his coat; and spreading himself comfortably a l’Anglais,
before the fire, displayed to my wondering and stupified gaze, the
pleasant features of Doctor Finucane.
“Why, Doctor—Doctor Finucane,” cried I, “is this possible? were you
really the inside in the mail last night.”
“Devil a doubt of it, Mr. Lorrequer; and may I make bould to ask,—were
you the outside?”
“Then what, may I beg to know, did you mean by your damned story about
Barney Doyle, and the hydrophobia, and Cusack Rooney’s thumb—eh?”
“Oh, by the Lord,” said Finucane, “this will be the death of me; and it
was you that I drove outside in all the rain last night! Oh, it will
kill Father Malachi outright with laughing, when I tell him;” and he
burst out into a fit of merriment that nearly induced me to break his
head with the poker.
“Am I to understand, then, Mr. Finucane, that this practical joke of
yours was contrived for _my_ benefit, and for the purpose of holding
_me_ up to the ridicule of your confounded acquaintances.”
“Nothing of the kind, upon my conscience,” said Fin, drying his eyes,
and endeavouring to look sorry and sentimental. “If I had only the
least suspicion in life that it was you, upon my oath I’d not have had
the hydrophobia at all, and, to tell you the truth, you were not the
only one frightened—you alarmed me devilishly too.”
“I alarmed you! Why, how can that be?”
“Why, the real affair is this: I was bringing these two packages of
notes down to my cousin Callaghan’s bank in Cork—fifteen thousand
pounds—devil a less; and when you came into the coach at Naas, after
driving there with your four horses, I thought it was all up with me.
The guard just whispered in my ear, that he saw you look at the priming
of your pistols before getting in; and faith I said four paters, and a
hail Mary, before you’d count five. Well, when you got seated, the
thought came into my mind that maybe, highwayman as you were, you would
not like dying a natural death, more particularly if you were an
Irishman; and so I trumped up that long story about the hydrophobia,
and the gentleman’s thumb, and devil knows what besides; and, while I
was telling it, the cold perspiration was running down my head and
face, for every time you stirred, I said to myself, now he’ll do it.
Two or three times, do you know, I was going to offer you ten shillings
in the pound, and spare my life; and once, God forgive me, I thought it
would not be a bad plan to shoot you by ‘mistake,’ do you perceave?”
“Why, upon my soul, I’m very much obliged to you for your excessively
kind intentions; but really I feel you have done quite enough for me on
the present occasion. But, come now, doctor, I must get to bed, and
before I go, promise me two things—to dine with us to-day at the mess,
and not to mention a syllable of what occurred last night—it tells,
believe me, very badly for both; so, keep the secret, for if these
confounded fellows of ours ever get hold of it, I may sell out, or quit
the army; I’ll never hear the end of it!”
“Never fear, my boy; trust me. I’ll dine with you, and you’re as safe
as a church-mouse for any thing I’ll tell them; so, now you’d better
change your clothes, for I’m thinking it rained last night.”
Muttering some very dubious blessings upon the learned Fin, I left the
room, infinitely more chagrined and chop-fallen at the discovery I had
made, than at all the misery and exposure the trick had consigned me
to; “however,” thought I, “if the doctor keep his word, it all goes
well; the whole affair is between us both solely; but, should it not be
so, I may shoot half the mess before the other half would give up
quizzing me.” Revolving such pleasant thought, I betook myself to bed,
and what with mulled port, and a blazing fire, became once more
conscious of being a warm-blooded animal, and feel sound asleep, to
dream of doctors, strait waistcoats, shaved heads, and all the pleasing
associations my late companion’s narrative so readily suggested.