As he concluded, Kirkton kissed the hostess, and ordered another bottle. "When I was in the Dragoon Guards, at the siege of Maastricht," said the corporal, with something sad in his tone, "six of us sang that song one night in my tent; before the noon of next day, there was but one alive of all the six--myself--who could better have been spared." "You look downcast, my lad," said Kirkton to me. "Ay," added the corporal; "what is the matter? have you done aught that is likely to make you seek a healthier atmosphere?" "Don't jibe the poor fellow, Jack," said the other on perceiving a flush of annoyance cross my face. "Is love at the bottom of it?" "See how he reddens--of course it is." "You mistake," said I, with a bitter sigh; "my funds are at _zero_." "Is that all?" observed the corporal, laughing; "mine have been so many times, for Fortune is a fickle wench; but, egad! the dice-box, a little prize money, a present from a pretty woman, or something else, always made the silver rise again to blood heat. Well--and so your purse is empty?" "As you see--there is but a shilling in it." "When mine was thus, I took another in the king's name, and then I had _two_--by that stroke I exactly doubled my fortune. What is your profession?" "I have none." "Relations?" "Yes," I replied, flushing to the temples with anger. "Friends, I should have said." "None." "Right!" exclaimed Corporal Charters, bitterly; "friends and relations are often very different people." "Come," added Kirkton, "be one of us--you are just a lad after old Preston's heart." "Old Preston--who is he?" "Zounds, man! don't you know? He is Colonel of the Greys--our idol! we all love the old boy as if he was our father--and a father he is indeed to the whole regiment. Come, then, I say, be one of us--the lads who are second to none." "_Second to none!_" echoed the corporal, draining his glass with enthusiasm, for this is yet the proud motto of his regiment; "you have still your brave heart, boy--the king will give you a sword, and you will ride with us against the French as a Scots Grey dragoon." The fumes of the potent alcohol I was imbibing had already mounted to my head; the idea of becoming a soldier had frequently occurred to me, and these troopers had only anticipated a proposal I was about to make them. "I will--I will!" I exclaimed, and gave each my hand upon the promise. Another jorum of punch was ordered, and long before it was finished, I found myself wearing the corporal's grenadier cap and aiguilettes, girded with his comrade's sword and belt, seated on the table, and singing most lustily, I know not what.