AT EDINBURGH—BILL TELLS THE COLONEL SOMETHING
On the night of our arrival, the deserter was taken to Edinburgh, and put into the guard-room. The recruits and myself were drawn up in line before the Colonel, and we were asked particularly who we were and whence we came. My turn arrived. “Well, and who are you?” says the Colonel. “You seem to have had a better time than these Sheffielders.” I told him that I was from Keighley, in the West Riding of Yorkshire. “Is that somewhere near Bingley?” asked the Colonel. “Yes,” replied I, “about four miles away.” “Do you know a gentleman in the neighbourhood called William Busfeild Ferrand?” “Yes, sir,” replied I. “He lives at St. Ives; I know him very well.” “Have you (queried the Colonel with a merry twinkling in his eye) ever had any of his hares and rabbits?” “No,” replied I, “I’m not a poacher.” “Well,” remarked the Colonel, “I think you will do well; perhaps it’s the best thing you ever did. But of these Sheffielders I have no high opinion; they’re a bad sample of soldiers indeed, and if I had my way I would petition Government to have no Sheffielders at all in the Army.” Then we retired from the Colonel’s presence, the sergeant in charge being instructed to take us on the following morning before the regimental doctor for examination. Set at liberty for the time being, we recruits made for the canteen. There we found all classes of soldiers—Highlanders, Lancers, Artillerymen—all supping their ale and making merry.