“No,” said Kellett, smiling, “it 's the Russians he 's fighting, and the French are helping him to do it.”
“That's better any day,” said Driscoll; “two to one is a pleasanter match. And so he's in the Rifles?” And here he laid his head on his hand and seemed lost in thought. “Is he a captain?” asked he, after a long pause.
“No, not yet,” said Kellett, while his cheek flushed at the evasion he was practising.
“Well, maybe he will soon,” resumed the other, relapsing once more into deep thought. “There was a young fellow joined them in Cork just before they sailed, and I lent him thirty shillings, and he never paid me. I wonder what became of him? Maybe he's killed.”
“Just as likely,” said Kellett, carelessly.
“Now, would your son be able to make him out for me?—not for the sake of the money, for I would n't speak of it, but out of regard for him, for I took a liking to him; he was a fine, handsome fellow, and bold as a lion.”
“He mightn't be in Jack's battalion, or he might, and Jack not know him. What was his name?” said Kellett, in some confusion.
“I 'll tell you if you 'll pledge your word you 'll never say a syllable about the money, for I can't think but he forgot it.”
“I 'll never breathe a word about it.”
“And will you ask your son all about him,—if he likes the sarvice, or if he 'd rather be at home, and how it agrees with him?” “And the name?”