"What—the corporal of marines? Why, no—I don't know much about him, Mr Brail,—how should I?" said he, smiling.
"I did not expect that you would, Sir Oliver," replied I, taken a little aback; "but he is certainly a very odd creature." The commodore here rang his bell.
"Gascoigne, send the Serjeant of marines here."
"Which, Sir Oliver," said the man—"Sergeant Lorimer, or Pigot, sir?"
"Send Serjeant Lorimer here."
The soldier, in his white jacket and trowsers, black cross belts, round hat, with a white tape band round it, and white cords, or lanyards on each side, fastening the brims up to the crown, like tiny shrouds, appeared at the door; and facing us, made his salute, as stiff as a poker, putting his hand up to his hat-brim, and swaying about in the narrow door-way, like a statue on a ball and socket.
"Lorimer," said Sir Oliver, "what do you know of Lennox—corporal Lennox?"
"Anan!" said the Serjeant, not comprehending the question; "beg pardon, sir, what is your pleasure?"
"Why," said the choleric commodore—"what know ye of Lennox, you numbscull, the marine who is left sick on board of the Midge—where and when did you pick him up?"
"Oh, beg pardon," said the man—"why, Sir Oliver, he enlisted at the depot at Portsmouth about twelve months ago. He had come round in some Scotch steam-boat, and he was then one of the handsomest-looking young chaps I ever se'ed, Sir Oliver; but he seemed always to feel as if the country was too hot to hold him, for he volunteered three times for rather badish frigates, before we were drafted for Gazelle, when you commissioned her. In the small affairs we have had under your honour's eye he has always, when in health, been a most desperate fellow. He seemed to value his life no more as a quid of tobacco—lately he has become a leetle more circumspect, but he is terribly fallen off in bodily health, sir."