“Harry Lorrequer, will you stand by me?”
So sudden and unexpected was his appearance at the moment, that I really felt but half awake, and kept puzzling myself for an explanation of the scene, rather than thinking of a reply to his question; perceiving which, and auguring but badly from my silence, he continued—
“Am I then, really deceived in what I believed to be an old and tried friend?”
“Why, what the devil’s the matter?” I cried out. “If you are in a scrape, why of course you know I’m your man; but, still, it’s only fair to let one know something of the matter in the meanwhile.”
“In a scrape!” said he, with a long-drawn sigh, intended to beat the whole Minerva press in its romantic cadence.
“Well, but get on a bit,” said I, rather impatiently; “who is the fellow you’ve got the row with? Not one of ours, I trust?”
“Ah, my dear Hal,” said he, in the same melting tone as before—“How your imagination does run upon rows, and broils, and duelling rencontres,” (he, the speaker, be it known to the reader, was the fire-eater of the regiment,) “as if life had nothing better to offer than the excitement of a challenge, or the mock heroism of a meeting.”
As he made a dead pause here, after which he showed no disposition to continue, I merely added—
“Well, at this rate of proceeding we shall get at the matter in hand, on our way out to Corfu, for I hear we are the next regiment for the Mediterranean.”
The observation seemed to have some effect in rousing him from his lethargy, and he added—