“Our colonel’s such a trump--a gentleman every inch. He dances with the sergeants’ wives, calls every man by his right name--Tom, Bill, or Jerry,--and his purse is always in his fingers. ‘Ulic,’ says he to me, as I passed him in the barrack yard last Friday, ‘go, drink my health, ye divil, and if you get glorious, why tell the adjutant that I bid ye do so,’ and with that he tosses me half-a-crown.” “Lord! what a wopper!” ejaculated the Jew. “Why he’s the very terror of the regiment,--orders a man ‘a hundred’ for sneezing on parade, and flogs regularly twice a week to give the drummers exercise. Take my advice, young man; be off at once, or that’ere chap will do ye brown.” So saying, he closed his left eye, rose, and returned to the fire, under the pretence of lighting his pipe; for having succeeded in drawing out the countryman’s money-bag while he gave him good advice, the Jew was anxious to move from the immediate vicinity of the prigged pocket, before the abstraction of its contents should be discovered. The fifer immediately took the vacant seat, Mr. Flyn became more eloquent than ever, but the unbeliever had done the mischief effectually--the bird was scared; and after announcing that he was “a widow’s son,” the bumpkin stoutly declared that “he would be shot at for nobody.” The case seemed hopeless; but Mr. Flyn was not the person to despair. With affectionate ardour he seized the peasant’s hand, swore that from first sight he had loved him like a brother, and consequently that they must have a parting glass. He discovered, unfortunately, that he had no silver; but the sergeant had enough for all, and he would trouble him to ask him, the sergeant, for a shilling. The request was made and granted; the polite commander instantly produced the current coin, Ulic Flyn called for another pint, the fifer, underneath the table, slily attached his own cockade to the dexter side of the _caubeeine_ of the “widow’s son,” while the lance corporal tapped him playfully on the shoulder, and hailed him for life a camarado. Dark suspicions flashed across the peasant’s mind. What meaned this wondrous civility? His eye caught that of the Jew--he remembered the admonition of the Israelite--and was he “done brown” already? Up he sprang, desired his companions to come away, and would have bade the company “a fair good-night,” had not a gentle detainer been laid on. “Sit down, my boy,” exclaimed the commander. “Drink like a soldier to-night--and in the morning ye’ll have time enough to take lave of y’er relashins.” “Take lave of my relashins!” returned the countryman, as he made a desperate effort to reach the door--an intention on his part which was promptly prevented; for on one side he was pinioned by the fifer, on the other collared by Mr. Flyn, while the commander talked something about the articles of war, and hinted that mutiny was punishable with death. [Illustration: 0100]