“Why, you know, sir, the firelock among ’Ropeyarn[[27]] sogers (it’s different, of coorse, among the Seapies[[28]]) alw’s goes by the denomy-nation of Brown Bess, and so we calls it ‘she.’”
“Oh, that’s it, is it, sergeant?”
“Take a glass of grog, Giblett, after your fatigues?”
“Thankye, sir, I don’t care if I do.”
“Here, you bearer, black fellow,” said the donor, “brandy, shrub, pawney, sergeant, ko do” (i.e., give the sergeant some brandy-and-water).
Sergeant Giblett took the empty glass, extended his arm in one direction to have it filled, whilst he turned his head in another; bearer applies his teeth to the brandy-bottle to get the cork out.
“You were a-axing of me, sir, I think, about the cellybrated battle of Laswarrie, in which we—that is, the ridg’ment I then belonged to—was present, under Lifttennant Gineral Lord Lake; yes, that was pretty near the stiffest business we had. There was the battalions of the French gineral, Munseer Donothing (Duderneg): and very good troops they was, though not so good as our Seapies. Hulloa!” he exclaimed, breaking off in his story, and looking towards the tumbler, which the bearer was busy in filling, “what’s this here man about?—he’s a-givin me all the bottle of brandy; here come, you must put some of this back.”
“No, no—nonsense, sergeant,” said the liberal donor, “drink it all—it won’t hurt you.”
This was just what Sergeant Giblett wanted.
“Well, thankye, sir; but I’m afraid its over strong. Gin’lemen, here’s towards your very good healths.”