“Marry--marry!” shouted O’Shaughnessy, “upon my conscience, it’s incomprehensible to me how a man can be guilty of it. To be sure, I don’t mean to say that there are not circumstances,--such as half-pay, old age, infirmity, the loss of your limbs, and the like; but that, with good health and a small balance at your banker’s, you should be led into such an embarrassment--” “Men will flirt,” said I, interrupting; “men will press taper fingers, look into bright eyes, and feel their witchery; and although the fair owners be only quizzing them half the time, and amusing themselves the other, and though they be the veriest hackneyed coquettes--” “Did you ever meet the Dalrymple girls, Dennis?” said Fred, with a look I shall never forget. What the reply was I cannot tell. My shame and confusion were overwhelming, and Power’s victory complete. “Here comes the prog,” cried Dennis, as Power’s servant entered with a very plausible-looking tray, while Fred proceeded to place before us a strong army of decanters. Our supper was excellent, and we were enjoying ourselves to the utmost, when an orderly sergeant suddenly opened the door, and raising his hand to his cap, asked if Major Power was there. “A letter for you, sir.” “Monsoon’s writing, by Jove! Come, boys, let us see what it means. What a hand the old fellow writes! The letters look all crazy, and are tumbling against each other on every side. Did you ever see anything half so tipsy as the crossing of that _t?_” “Read it. Read it out, Fred!” Tuesday Evening. Dear Power,--I’m in such a scrape! Come up and see me at once, bring a little sherry with you, and we’ll talk over what’s to be done. Yours ever, B. MONSOON. Quarter-General. We resolved to finish our evening with the major; so that, each having armed himself with a bottle or two, and the remnants of our supper, we set out towards his quarters, under the guidance of the orderly. After a sharp walk of half an hour, we reached a small hut, where two sentries of the Eighty-eighth were posted at the door. O’Shaughnessy procured admittance for us, and in we went. At a small table, lighted by a thin tallow candle, sat old Monsoon, who, the weather being hot, had neither coat nor wig on; an old cracked china tea-pot, in which as we found afterwards he had mixed a little grog, stood before him, and a large mass of papers lay scattered around on every side,--he himself being occupied in poring over their contents, and taking occasional draughts from his uncouth goblet. As we entered noiselessly, he never perceived us, but continued to mumble over, in a low tone, from the documents before him:-- “Upon my life, it’s like a dream to me! What infernal stuff this brandy is!”