“My dear Frank!”
“My dear Tom!”
“How glad I am to see you!”
“How you are grown! but I should have known you anywhere, old fellow.”
“So should I you, old boy.”
“Well—eh—and how goes it?”
Thus we exploded a volley of queries and interjections, which escaped by fitful jerks, like water from bottles suddenly inverted. There was no acting here, but a hearty burst of honest nature—fresh as the morning air we were breathing.
The warmth of our greeting a little subsided, I resumed my recumbent position in the palankeen, and on went the bearers, jolting along at a rattling pace, having apparently caught all our animation, with revived hopes of “buckshish.” Rattleton trotted alongside, talking incessantly, and in a short time the military cantonment of Barrackpore broke in view.
We crossed the parade, where all was life and animation; soldiers drilling, recruits on one leg doing the goose-step, drums beating, drill-sergeants shouting, and bugles sounding.
We passed through the lines, thronged with sepoys in their graceful undress, and were soon at my friend’s bungalow, in which, after dismissing my bearers, I entered to take up my quarters. Rattleton gave me another shake, as if he had been working a pump handle and cordially bidding me welcome.