"Thanks for the good wish, Collins, and to (sheol) with the flattery.
I may tell you that I do put myself in your place, as well as in Tommy's.
But, d——n it, you don't seem to be alive to the principle of the thing.——
You're not a blue-ribboner, I suppose?" And he tendered the replenished
glass to Bob. "Bad hand you've got, poor fellow. Severe accident apparently?"
"Sepoy bullet at Lucknow, sir. I was a lad of nineteen then; just joined."
"You've been a soldier?"
"Yes, sir; I was an ensign in the Queen's 64th. We formed part of Havelock's column of relief." The placid, unassertive, incapable face told the rest of the poor fellow's story.
"You don't seem to be alive to the principle of the thing," repeated Stewart, turning again to me. "Your cosmopolitanism is a d——d big mistake. Every man has a nationality, remember; and though you'll find many most excellent fellows of all races, yet, if you want the real thing, you must look"——
"May God bless you, Mr. Stewart!" murmured Stirling of Ours, raising the glass to his lips.
"Thank you, my friend.——You must look to Scotland for it. And, d——n it, man, this is the very nationality you have been fleering at. Of course, I don't dwell on the subject because I happen to be a Scotsman myself; only, I must say I should never have expected—But what do you think is the matter with Alf Morris?"
"Difficult to say. Some sort of arthrodynic complaint, I fancy; at all events, he's badly gone in most of his joints."
"Poor devil!" soliloquised the squatter, filling the glass for himself. "He's a bad lot—a d——n bad lot—a d—-nation bad lot. Bitter, vindictive sort of man. You're familiar, like myself, with Shakespear; now, Morris reminds me of Titus Andronicus.—Better luck, boys."
"Thank you, Mr. Stewart."