“May I offer you a cigar?” said Stapylton, whose self-possession was pushed somewhat hard by the other. “An old campaigner is sure to be a smoker.”
“I am not. I never had a pipe in my mouth since Walcheren.”
“Since Walcheren! You don't say that you are an old Walcheren man?”
“I am, indeed. I was in the second battalion of the 103d,—the Duke's Fusiliers, if ever you heard of them.”
“Heard of them! The whole world has heard of them; but I did n't know there was a man of that splendid corps surviving. Why, they lost—let me see—they lost every officer but—” Here a vigorous effort to keep his cigar alight interposed, and kept him occupied for a few seconds. “How many did you bring out of action,—four was it, or five? I'm certain you had n't six!”
“We were the same as the Buffs, man for man,” said M'Cormick.
“The poor Buffs!—very gallant fellows too!” sighed Stapylton. “I have always maintained, and I always will maintain, that the Walcheren expedition, though not a success, was the proudest achievement of the British arms.”
“The shakes always began after sunrise, and in less than ten minutes you 'd see your nails growing blue.”
“How dreadful!”
“And if you felt your nose, you would n't know it was your nose; you 'd think it was a bit of a cold carrot.”