“No; shaved!” said Magennis, bluntly.
“And shaved you shall be, Captain,—and beautifully shaved, too, for I have got an excellent case from Lamprey's; they came yesterday,—came with the writ against Jones Creegan.”
“At whose suit?”
“Mrs. Miles Creegan, the other brother's widow,” said Hosey, lathering away and talking with breathless rapidity. “There was a clause in old Sam's will, that if ever Tom, the chap that died at Demerara—you'd like more off the whiskers, it's more military. It was only yesterday Major Froode remarked to me what a soldierlike-looking man was Captain Magennis.”
“Is he in command of the detachment?”
“He is in his Majesty's—1st Foot—the 'Buccaneers,' they used to be called; I suppose you never heard why?”
“No, nor don't want to hear. What kind of a man is the Major?”
“He 's a smart, well-made man, with rather a haughty look,” said Hosey, drawing himself up, and seeming to imply that there was a kind of resemblance between them.
“Is he English or Irish?”