“Come to the fire,” said one of the men.
I walked up and took my seat on one of the wood forms near the grate.
“I feel very dry,” said the one who had now commenced to eat the herrings.
“Divil doubt you, an’ so you ought to feel dhry, you murtherin cannibal, for there you sit ating two as fine fellows of your own spacies as ever tuk a bath in the salt say,” said an old looking soldier.
“Jerry,” said the “orderly,” “have you any money?”
“Niver a farden,” said Jerry—the man who had jokingly called him a “cannibal.”
“I’ve got some,” said I, displaying one shilling and fivepence—all I had left.
“Bravo, youngster,” said the orderly, “will you pay for a quart of ale?”
“Yes, for two quarts if you like,” said I.
“Might as well have a gallon while we are about it, that’ll jist be a pint apiece,” said a big lump of a fellow rising from one of the beds, where he had been lying and smoking a dirty short pipe without speaking a word until now.