Perhaps it may be remembered how, in a financial statement made by this young officer during the progress of a farce, he affirmed that, should he himself "burst up," as he called it, a certain "Soldier Bill" would become captain of that troop which it was his own ambition to command. With the view of consulting this rising warrior in his present monetary crisis, Daisy had travelled, night and day, from Ireland, nor could he have chosen a better adviser in the whole Army-List, as regarded kindness of heart, combined with that tenacious courage Englishmen call "pluck."
"I'm not a clever chap, I know," Bill used to acknowledge, in moments of expansion after dinner. "But what I say is this: If you've got to do a thing, catch hold, and do it! Keep square, run straight, and ride the shortest way! You won't beat that, my boy, with all the dodges that ever put one of your nobblers in the hole!"
It is but justice to admit that, in every relation of life, sport or earnest, this simple moralist acted strictly in accordance with his creed. That he was a favourite in his regiment need hardly be said. The younger son of a great nobleman, he had joined at seventeen, with a frank childish face and the spirits of a boy fresh from school. Before he was a week at drill, the very privates swore such a young dare-devil had never ridden in their ranks since the corps was raised. Utterly reckless, as it seemed, of life and limb, that fair-haired, half-grown lad, would tackle the wildest horse, swim the swiftest steam, leap the largest fence, and fight the strongest man, with such rollicking, mirthful enjoyment, as could only spring from an excess of youthful energy and light-heartedness. But, somehow, he was never beat, or didn't know it when he was. Eventually, it always turned out that the horse was mastered, the stream crossed, the fence cleared, and the man obliged to give in. His war-like house had borne for centuries on their shield the well-known motto, "Go on!" To never a scion of the line could it have been more appropriate than to this light-footed, light-headed, light-hearted light dragoon!
In his own family, of course, he was the pet and treasure of all. His mother worshipped him, though he kept her in continual hot water with his vagaries. His sisters thought (perhaps reasonably enough) that there was nobody like him in the world. And his stately old father, while he frowned and shook his head at an endless catalogue of larks, steeple-chases, broken bones, etc., was more proud of Bill in his heart than of all his ancestors and all his other sons put together.
They were a distinguished race. Each had made his mark in his own line. It was "Soldier Bill's" ambition to attain military fame; every step in the ladder seemed to him, therefore, of priceless value. And promotion was as the very breath of his nostrils.
But a man that delights in personal risk is rarely of a selfish nature. In reply to Daisy's statement, made with that terseness of expression, that total absence of circumlocution, complimentary or otherwise, which distinguishes the conversation of a mess-table, Bill ordered his visitor a "brandy-and-soda" on the spot, and thus delivered himself.
"Troop be d——d, Daisy! It's no fun soldiering without your 'pals.' I'd rather be a 'Serrafile' for the rest of my life, or a 'batman,' or a trumpeter, by Jove! than command the regiment, only because all the good fellows in it had come to grief. Sit down. Never mind the bitch, she's always smelling about a strange pair of legs, but she won't lay hold, if you keep perfectly still. Have a weed, and let's see what can be done!"
The room in which their meeting took place was characteristic of its occupant. Devoid of superfluous furniture, and with an uncarpeted floor, it boasted many works of art, spirited enough, and even elaborate, in their own particular line. The series of prints representing a steeple-chase, in which yellow jacket cut out all the work, and eventually won by a neck, could not be surpassed for originality of treatment and fidelity of execution. Statuettes of celebrated acrobats stood on brackets along the walls, alternating with cavalry spurs, riding-whips, boxing-gloves, and basket-hilted sticks, while the place of honour over the chimney-piece was filled by a portrait of Mendoza in fighting attitude, at that halcyon period of the prize-ring—
"When Humphreys stood up to the Israelite's thumps,
In kerseymere breeches, and 'touch-me-not' pumps."
"It's very pleasant this," observed Daisy, with his legs on a chair, to avoid the attentions of Venus, an ill-favoured lady of the "bull" kind, beautiful to connoisseurs as her Olympian namesake, but for the uninitiated an impersonation of hideous ferocity and anatomical distortion combined.