“Yes; he was at the battle,” said Kellett, dryly; for though he had once or twice told his honorable friend that Jack was in the service, he had not mentioned that he was in the ranks. Not that Annesley Beecher would have, in the least, minded the information. The fact could not by possibility have touched himself; it never could have compelled _him_ to mount guard, do duty in the trenches, eat Commissariat biscuit, or submit to any of the hardships soldiery inflicts; and he 'd have heard of Jack's fate with all that sublime philosophy which teaches us to bear tranquilly the calamities of others. “Why don't you stir yourself to get him a step? There's nothing to be had without asking! ay, worse than asking,--begging, worrying, importuning. Get some fellow in one of the offices to tell you when there's a vacancy, and then up and at them. If they say, 'We are only waiting for an opportunity, Captain Kellett,' you reply, 'Now's your time then, Groves of the Forty-sixth is gone “toes up;” Simpson, of the Bays, has cut his lucky this morning.' That's the way to go to work.” “You are wonderful!” exclaimed Kellett, who really did all but worship the worldly wisdom of his friend. “I 'd ask Lackington, but he 's no use to any one. Just look at my own case.” And now he launched forth into the theme he really loved and never found wearisome. His capacity for anything--everything, his exact fitness for fifty opposite duties, his readiness to be a sinecurist, and his actual necessity for a salary, were subjects he could be eloquent on; devoting occasional passing remarks to Lackington's intense stupidity, who never exerted himself for him, and actually “thought him a flat.” “I know you won't believe--but he does, I assure you--he thinks me a flat!” Before Kellett could fully rally from the astounding force of such an unjustifiable opinion, his guest, Conway, knocked at the door. “I say, Kellett, there comes an apology from your friend.” “How so?” asked Kellett, eagerly. “I just saw a soldier come up to the door, and the chances are it 's an officer's servant with a note of excuse.” The door opened as he spoke, and Conway entered the room. Kellett met him with an honest cordiality, and then, turning to Beecher, said,-- “My son's friend and comrade,--Mr. Annesley Beecher;” and the two men bowed to each other, and exchanged glances that scarcely indicated much pleasure at the acquaintance. “Why, he 's in the ranks, Kellett,” whispered Beecher, as he drew him into the window. “So is my son,” said Kellett, with a gulp that half choked him. “The deuce he is; you never told me that. And is this our dinner company?” “I was just going to explain--Oh, here's Bella!” and Miss Kellett entered, giving such a cordial greeting to the soldier that made Beecher actually astounded. “What's his name, Kellett?” said Beecher, half languidly. “A good name, for the matter of that; he's called Conway.”