Our company was one night on picquet at Aruda; we had, as usual, made a blazing fire close to the stable of a large house, which in the morning we had noticed, contained a very handsome carriage (the only one by-the-bye that I had ever seen in Portugal). Rather late in the evening we missed Tom—who, by the way, had a great love of exploring the houses of the village, and whom we imagined to be employed in his favourite amusement, “looking for wine.” After having consumed sundry chairs to keep alive our fire, we found it necessary to obtain fresh fuel, and while consulting where it was to come from, one man, with an oath, proposed to burn the Portuguese coach. The novelty of the thing among our thoughtless fellows was received with acclamations, and as our officers were absent in a house close by, several started up on their legs for the purpose. The stable-doors were immediately opened, and the coach wheeled backwards into the large blazing fire. “This will make a jolly roast!” exclaimed several of the men, as the paint and paneling began to crack under the influence of the heat. Our scamps were laughing and enjoying what they called a capital joke, but just as the flames were beginning to curl up around the devoted vehicle, a roar like that of a bull came from its interior, and threw us for a moment into consternation: immediately afterwards one of the glasses was dashed out, and Tom Crawley’s big head was thrust through the window, amid shouts of laughter from the men, as he cried out—“Oh bad luck to your sowls! are you going to burn me alive?” At the same moment, urged powerfully by the heat of his berth, he made the most violent efforts to open the door, which from the handle being heated, was a difficult and painful operation. We had some trouble ere we could extricate the poor fellow, and then not before he was severely scorched. It afterwards appeared he had gone half tipsy into the carriage, and was taking a snooze, when he was so warmly awoke. After this occurrence, Crawley used to boast of going to sleep with one eye open. At this period the French soldiers and ourselves began to establish a very amicable feeling, apart from duty in the field. It was a common thing for us to meet each other daily at the houses between our lines, when perhaps both parties would be in search of wine and food. In one of the houses so situated, I remember once finding Crawley in a drunken state in company with a couple of French soldiers. I was mortified by the merriment his appearance had excited, and could with difficulty get him away, as he stripped, and offered to fight the whole three of us for laughing at him. CHAPTER VIII.