“Yes, I tried soldiering, but I did n't like it,” said Beecher; “and it was better in my day than now, they tell me.”
A movement of impatience on Conway's part was suddenly interrupted by Kellett, saying, “He means that the service is n't what it was; and indeed he's right there. I remember the time there wasn't a man in the Eighty-fifth could n't carry away three bottles of Bennett's strong port, and play as good a rubber, afterwards, as Hoyle himself.”
“It's the snobbery I was thinking of,” said Beecher; “fellows go into the army now who ought to be counter-jumping.”
“I don't know what they ought to be doing,” broke in Conway, angrily, “but I could tell you something of what they are doing; and where you are to find men to do it better, I 'm not so clear. I said a few moments back, you ought to go out to the Crimea; but I beg to correct myself,—it is exactly what you ought not to do.”
“Never fear, old fellow; I never dreamed of it. Give you any odds you like, you 'll never see my arrival quoted at Balaklava.”
“A thousand pardons, Miss Kellett,” whispered Conway, as he arose, “but you see how little habit I have of good company; I'm quite ashamed of my warmth. May I venture to come and pay you a morning visit before I go back?”
“Oh, by all means; but why not an evening one? You are more certain to find us.”
“Then an evening one, if you'll allow me;” and shaking Kellett's hand warmly, and with a cold bow to Beecher, he withdrew.
“Wasn't he a flat!” cried Beecher, as the door closed after him. “The Smasher—that was the name he went by—went through an estate of six thousand a year, clean and clear, in less than four years, and there he is now, a private soldier with one arm!”
“Faith, I like him; he's a fine fellow,” said Kellett, heartily.