“Come along,” said the charlie; “step out like a man; we’re bringin’ you home.” The remark elicited a drunken effort to be melodious--and Mr Pryme sang, or strove to sing, “We won’t go home till morning.” “The divil a here ye’ll stay then,” responded his supporters. “Wine--more wine.--‘Wine cures the gout,’” returned the quaker. “If it does, sorra touch you’ll have of the disorder for a month of Sundays. Come along wid him.” The quaker’s head was still ringing with drunken madrigals, and he proceeded to chaunt “Old King Cole.” “Arrah, don’t bother us wid King Cole; but try and put the feet aninder ye. We’ll bring ye to George’s-street.” “No,” no muttered the Quaker; “I’ll go home to the Merchants’ Quay.” “Divil a sich an umproper place ye’ll go near. Haven’t ye been enough on the _ran-tan_ already the night?” and away they toddled towards the barracks, which destination was safely reached, and the body of the pseudo lieutenant delivered to the guard, with an intimation on the part of the watchmen, that on the morrow particular inquiries should be made touching the general health of the invalid. “This must be the officer that joined last week,” said the sergeant. “Go to his room and find his servant; and first put a knapsack under his head, and take his stock off. To do him justice, I never saw a more drunken gentleman.” When John Crawford was awakened, and had made a personal inspection, to the utter surprise of the main guard, “pioneers and all,” he repudiated the sleeping gentleman, and satisfactorily illustrated the old adage, that the cowl no more constitutes a monk, than a red jacket makes the soldier. Honest John’s first care was to secure his master’s uniform from further damage, which he contrived to effect by the substitution of a shooting jacket; and then, _nemine contradicente_, it was agreed, that drunken men should be permitted to sleep themselves sober; and that accordingly, the unhappy puritan should be left in undisturbed repose. Morning dawned through the guard-room lattice before Samuel Pryme awoke. If there be a feeling more horrible than another, it is the return of reason to a drunken neophyte when he wakens after his first debauch. The quaker stared wildly round him; there were twenty men in the room--all strangers to him; some sleeping on the wooden bench on which he lay, and others sitting smoking by the fire. His head was giddy--his brain wandered--he was tortured with a burning thirst. Where was he? Suddenly his pale cheeks reddened with shame; he felt like a Hindu who has lost caste; and, burying his face between his hands, in a smothered voice that bespoke a consciousness of abasement, while tears fell fast, he faintly murmured, “Where am I?” The sergeant laid aside a book which he had been reading in the window--and, though a rough soldier, he felt sincerely for the penitent.