The want of money is a common dilemma,—not the less disagreeable, however, because it _is_ common—but in certain situations this want is more apparent than real. The Hon. Ensign Spoonbill was in the predicament of impecuniosity; but there were—as a celebrated statesman is in the habit of saying—three courses open to him. He might leave off play, and do without the money; he might “throw himself” on Lord Pelican’s paternal feelings; or he might _somehow_ contrive to raise a supply on his own account. To leave off just at the moment when he was sure to win back all he had lost, would have been ridiculous; besides, every man of spirit in the regiment would have cut him. To throw himself upon the generosity of his sire, was a good poetical idea; but, practically, it would have been of no value: for, in the first place, Lord Pelican had no money to give—in the next, there was an elder brother, whose wants were more imperative than his own; and lastly, he had already tried the experiment, and failed in the most signal manner. There remained, therefore, only the last expedient; and being advised, moreover, to have recourse to it, he went into the project _tête baissée_. The “advice” was tendered in this form. “Well, Spooney, my boy, how are you, this morning?” kindly enquired Captain Cushion, one day on his return from parade, from which the Honourable Ensign had been absent on the plea of indisposition. “Deuced queer,” was the reply; “that Roman punch always gives me the splittingest headaches!” “Ah! you’re not used to it. I’m as fresh as a four-year old. Well, what did you do last night, Spooney?” “Do! why, I lost, of course; _you_ ought to know that.” “I—my dear fellow! Give you my honour I got up a loser!” “Not to me, though,” grumbled the Ensign. “Can’t say as to that,” replied the Captain; “all I know is, that I am devilishly minus.” “Who won, then?” enquired Spoonbill. “Oh!” returned the Captain, after a slight pause, “I suspect—Chowser—he has somebody’s luck and his own too!” “I think he must have mine,” said the Ensign, with a faint smile, as the alternations of the last night’s Blind Hookey came more vividly to his remembrance. “What did I lose to you, Cushion?” he continued, in the hope that his memory had deceived him. The Captain’s pocket-book was out in an instant. “Sixty-five, my dear fellow; that was all. By-the-bye, Spooney, I’m regularly hard up; can you let me have the tin? I wouldn’t trouble you, upon my soul, if I could possibly do without it, but I’ve got a heavy bill coming due to-morrow, and I can’t renew.” The Honourable Ensign sank back on his pillow, and groaned impotently. Rallying, however, from this momentary weakness, he raised his head, and, after apostrophising the spirit of darkness as his best friend, exclaimed, “I’ll tell you what it is, Cushion, I’m thoroughly cleaned out. I haven’t got a dump!” “Then you must fly a kite,” observed the Captain, coolly. “No difficulty about that.”