“Faithful servant, Brownsmith.”
“Well, Sir Francis, ‘faithful servant,’” said Mr Solomon smiling, “these twenty years, and you don’t suppose I’m going to heed a word or two like that.”
“Thank you, Brownsmith,” said Sir Francis, and he turned to Ike and spoke sharply once more.
“What regiment were you in, sir?”
“Eighth Hoozoars, Captain,” said Ike, drawing himself up and standing at attention.
“Colonel,” whispered Mr Solomon.
“All right!” growled Ike.
“Well, then, Isaac Barnes, speaking as one old soldier to another, I said words to you to-night for which I am heartily sorry. I beg your pardon.”
“God bless you, Colonel! If you talk to me like that arterward, you may call me what you like.”
“Eh?” cried Sir Francis sharply; “then I will. How dare you then, you scoundrel, go and disgrace yourself; you, an ex-British soldier—a man who has worn the king’s uniform—disgrace yourself by getting drunk? Shame on you, man, shame!”