“And sure enough they left us bare and naked the next morning; and if the French sharpshooters pick us down now, devil mend them for wasting powder, for if they look in the orderly books, they’ll find their mistake.”
“Ah, Maurice, Maurice!” said Shaugh, with a sigh, “you’ll never improve,—you’ll never improve!”
“Why the devil would I?” said he. “Ain’t I at the top of my profession—full surgeon—with nothing to expect, nothing to hope for? Oh, if I had only remained in the light company, what wouldn’t I be now?”
“Then you were not always a doctor?” said I.
“Upon my conscience, I wasn’t,” said he. “When Shaugh knew me first, I was the Adonis of the Roscommon militia, with more heiresses in my list than any man in the regiment; but Shaugh and myself were always unlucky.”
“Poor Mrs. Rogers!” said the major, pathetically, drinking off his glass and heaving a profound sigh.
“Ah, the darling!” said the doctor. “If it wasn’t for a jug of punch that lay on the hall table, our fortune in life would be very different.”
“True for you, Maurice!” quoth O’Shaughnessy.
“I should like much to hear that story,” said I, pushing the jug briskly round.
“He’ll tell it you,” said O’Shaughnessy, lighting his cigar, and leaning pensively back against a tree,—“he’ll tell it you.”