“What the devil can all this mean?” I said, in a half-whisper, turning to the others. But there they stood, their handkerchiefs to their mouths, and evidently choking with suppressed laughter.
“May I beg, Colonel C——,” said I——
“To your quarters, sir,” roared the little man, in the voice of a lion. And with a haughty wave of his hand, prevented all further attempt on my part to seek explanation.
“They’re all mad, every man of them,” I muttered, as I betook byself slowly back to my rooms, amid the same evidences of mirth my first appearance had excited—which even the Colonel’s presence, feared as he was, could not entirely subdue.
With the air of a martyr I trod heavily up the stairs, and entered my quarters, meditating within myself, awful schemes for vengeance, on the now open tyranny of my Colonel; upon whom, I too, in my honest rectitude of heart, vowed to have “a court-martial.” I threw myself upon a chair, and endeavoured to recollect what circumstance of the past evening could have possibly suggested all the mirth in which both officers and men seemed to participate equally; but nothing could I remember, capable of solving the mystery,—surely the cruel wrongs of the manly Othello were no laughter-moving subject.
I rang the bell hastily for my servant. The door opened.
“Stubbes,” said I, “are you aware”——
I had only got so far in my question, when my servant, one of the most discreet of men, put on a broad grin, and turned away towards the door to hide his face.
“What the devil does this mean?” said I, stamping with passion; “he is as bad as the rest. Stubbes,” and this I spoke with the most grave and severe tone, “what is the meaning of the insolence?”
“Oh, sir,” said the man; “Oh, sir, surely you did not appear on parade with that face?” and then he burst into a fit of the most uncontrollable laughter.