A piece of roasted beef, cold, some bread, and the materials for manufacturing whisky toddy, were rapidly laid for us within a snug recess that opened off the bar. A large fire which blazed within the wide arched fireplace, filled the whole apartment with a ruddy light, that was reflected from scores of plates in a rack, and rows of polished tin and pewter mugs and tankards; but I selected a seat that was in shadow, for Farmer Flail, who was seated in an arm-chair close by, and had wakened up at the noise of our entrance, had dozed off to sleep, and I had no wish to be recognised if he awoke again. Although I was scarcely a mile from the avenue of Netherwood, old Roger Flail was the only person in that district who knew me. "The last time I was in this quarter, a strange affair happened," said the corporal. "How?" I inquired. "Our chaplain fought a duel." "A duel--your chaplain?" "Yes--with a cornet of Eland's Horse." "About some point of scripture?" "About a pretty girl, and the poor cornet was run through the body, and left dead, near the gate of a hall--Netherwood, I think 'tis called." "Were you in the Greys, then?" I inquired. "No--I was in the Dragoon Guards, and I had _not_ the honour to be a corporal," he replied, while a dark expression stole over his handsome and sunburnt face. "Have you seen service?" I asked. The troopers laughed. "Seen service!" repeated the corporal; "I have seen everything--the devil himself, I believe; but we have both smelt powder in Flanders, and hope to do so soon again. Another slice of the beef, my boy? No more, you say? At your age, I could have eaten a horse behind the saddle." I begged to be excused; I had but little appetite. "I hope you can drink, at all events," said Tom Kirkton, the private, pushing the jug of hot water and the whisky bottle towards me; "make your brewage and be jolly while you may." Then while stirring his steaming punch, in a lull, deep, manly voice, he began to sing, while the corporal clanked his spurs and clinked his glass in tune to the favourite camp song of the day. "How stands the glass around? For shame, ye take no care, my boys! How stands the glass around? Let mirth and wine abound! The trumpets sound, And the colours flying are, my boys, To fight, kill, or wound; May we still be found, Content with our hard fare, my boys, On the cold ground! "Why, soldiers, why Should we be melancholy, boys? Why, soldiers, why, Whose business 'tis to die? What, sighing?--fie! Shun fear, drink on, be jolly, boys! 'Tis he, you, or I, Cold, hot, wet, or dry, We're always bound to follow, boys, And scorn to fly. "'Tis but in vain (I mean not to upbraid you, boys) 'Tis but in vain For soldiers to complain; Should next campaign, Send us to HIM who made us, boys, We're free from pain; But should we remain, A bottle and kind landlady Cures all again."