"One moment, sir," he had begun, confidently enough. "The accomplished artiste to whose representations you have been good enough to listen, has told you—so far as he is concerned—the simple truth. To a certain extent I can corroborate him. But I beg you to understand that he and I—if I may employ a nautical phrase—are not in the same boat."
"Who the devil may you be?" Captain Crang interposed.
"That, sir," answered the Major with dignity, "is precisely what I propose to explain. By an accident I find myself without a visiting-card; but my name, sir, is Hymen—Major Hymen, sir—of the Troy Volunteer Artillery (better known to you, perhaps, as the Gallants), and Chief Magistrate of that ancient and picturesque little borough."
Captain Crang stared at him for a moment with lowered brows and jaw working as if it chewed the cud of his wrath.
"Look here," he replied. "You're the funny man of the troupe, I suppose? Comic Irishman and that sort of thing, hey?"
"I assure you, sir—"
"And I assure you, sir, that if you come the funny dog over me, I'll have you up to the gratings in two shakes of a duck's tail, and tickle your funny ribs with three dozen of the best. Understand?" The Captain paused, trembling with rage. "Understand, hey, you '—' little barnstorming son of a '—'? Made a mistake, have I? Cut your capers at my expense, would you, you little baldheaded runt? By '—' if you pull another face at me, sir, you shall caper off the yardarm, sir; on a string, sir; high as Haman, sir! I hope, sir," wound up Captain Crang, recovering his calm, "that on this point, at any rate, I have left no room for misunderstanding."
It will excite no wonder that Mr. Sturge found the Major somewhat irresponsive to his own jubilant mood.
"I should soon get used to this life," he repeated. "There's a spirit in it—a breeziness, I may call it—which is positively infectious. You don't find it so?"
"I do not," the Major confessed.