“By coorse, your honor. I’d like to be near yourself; bekase, too, if anything happens to you,--the Lord be betune us and harm,” here he crossed himself piously,--“sure, I’d like to be able to tell the master how you died; and sure, there’s Mr. Considine--God pardon him! He’ll be beating my brains out av I couldn’t explain it all.” “Well, Mike, I’ll speak to some of my friends here about you, and we’ll settle it all properly. Here’s the doctor.” “Arrah, Mr. Charles, don’t mind him. He’s a poor crayture entirely. Devil a thing he knows.” “Why, what do you mean, man? He’s physician to the forces.” “Oh, be-gorra, and so he may be!” said Mike, with a toss of his head. “Those army docthers isn’t worth their salt. It’s thruth I’m telling you. Sure, didn’t he come to see me when I was sick below in the hould? “‘How do you feel?’ says he. “‘Terribly dhry in the mouth,’ says I. “‘But your bones,’ says he; ‘how’s them?’ “‘As if cripples was kicking me,’ says I. “Well, with that he wint away, and brought back two powders. “‘Take them,’ says he, ‘and you’ll be cured in no time.’ “‘What’s them?’ says I. “‘They’re ematics,’ says he. “‘Blood and ages!’ says I, ‘are they?’ “‘Devil a lie,’ says he; ‘take them immediately.’ “And I tuk them; and would you believe me, Mister Charles?--it’s thruth I’m telling you,--devil a one o’ them would stay on my stomach. So you see what a docther he is!” I could not help smiling at Mike’s ideas of medicine, as I turned away to talk to the major, who was busily engaged beside me. His occupation consisted in furbishing up a very tarnished and faded uniform, whose white seams and threadbare lace betokened many years of service. “Getting up our traps, you see, O’Malley,” said he, as he looked with no small pride at the faded glories of his old vestment. “Astonish them at Lisbon, we flatter ourselves. I say, Power, what a bad style of dress they’ve got into latterly, with their tight waist and strapped trousers; nothing free, nothing easy, nothing _dégagé_ about it. When in a campaign, a man ought to be able to stow prog for twenty-four hours about his person, and no one the wiser. A very good rule, I assure you, though it sometimes leads to awkward results. At Vimeira, I got into a sad scrape that way. Old Sir Harry, that commanded there, sent for the sick return. I was at dinner when the orderly came, so I packed up the eatables about me, and rode off. Just, however, as I came up to the quarters, my horse stumbled and threw me slap on my head. “‘Is he killed?’ said Sir Harry. “‘Only stunned, your Excellency,’ said some one. “‘Then he’ll come to, I suppose. Look for the papers in his pocket.’