“Eh?—what—how!—who is this? It can’t be—egad, sure it is, though. Charley! Charley O’Malley, you scapegrace, where have you been? When did you join?”
“A week ago, Major. I could resist it no longer. I did my best to be a country gentleman, and behave respectably, but the old temptation was too strong for me. Fred Power and yourself, Major, had ruined my education; and here I am once more among you.”
“And so Picton and the arrest and all that, was nothing but a joke?” said the old fellow, rolling his wicked eyes with a most cunning expression.
“Nothing more, Major, set your heart at rest.”
“What a scamp you are,” said he, with another grin. “Il est mon fils—il est mon fils, Curey,” presenting me, as he spoke, while the burgomaster, in whose eyes the major seemed no inconsiderable personage, saluted me with profound respect.
Turning at once towards this functionary, I explained that I was the bearer of important despatches, and that my horse—I was ashamed to say my mule—having fallen lame, I was unable to proceed.
“Can you procure me a remount, Monsieur?” said I, “for I must hasten on to Courtrai.”
“In half an hour you shall be provided, as well as with a mounted guide for the road. Le fils de son Excellence,” said he, with emphasis, bowing to the major as he spoke; who, in his turn, repaid the courtesy with a still lower obeisance.
“Sit down, Charley; here is a clean glass. I am delighted to see you, my boy! They tell me you have got a capital estate and plenty of ready. Lord, we so wanted you, as there’s scarcely a fellow with sixpence among us. Give me the lad that can do a bit of paper at three months, and always be ready for a renewal. You haven’t got a twenty-pound note?” This was said sotto voce. “Never mind; ten will do. You can give me the remainder at Brussels. Strange, is it not, I have not seen a bit of clean bank paper like this for above a twelvemonth!” This was said as he thrust his hand into his pocket, with one of those peculiar leers upon his countenance which, unfortunately, betrayed more satisfaction at his success than gratitude for the service. “You are looking fat—too fat, I think,” said he, scrutinizing me from head to foot; “but the life we are leading just now will soon take that off. The slave-trade is luxurious indolence compared to it. Post haste to Nivelle one day; down to Ghent the next; forty miles over a paved road in a hand-gallop, and an aide-de-camp with a watch in his hand at the end of it, to report if you are ten minutes too late. And there is Wellington has his eye everywhere. There is not a truss of hay served to the cavalry, nor a pair of shoes half-soled in the regiment, that he don’t know of it. I’ve got it over the knuckles already.”
“How so, Major? How was that?”