"Just one letter, sir. And a queer one, too. Here it is," said the colour-sergeant, handing over a dirty, grease-marked epistle.
————
Dear Officer,—
I'm in grate pane, my Sweethart Privit Spud Tamson in your Kumpany is gaun wi' ither weemin. He hisnae ritten me for a fortnicht. And a lad on Pass tell't me that he wis flirtin' an' kissin' ither lasses (servants in big hooses). He promist tae mairry me owre a year ago, an' I've been savin' up. It's jist awfu'. If he disnae stop it, I'll droon masel' in the Clyde. Wull ye tell him that, kind sir. I'll no' forget ye, and I'll send ye a pair o' hame-made socks at Ne'erday.
I Am,
Yours Respeckfully,
Mary Ann.
[pg 203] "The limit, sir, eh?"
"Worse than that. Call that man up."
"Yes, sir," said Tamson, unprepared for the revelations concerning his infidelity.
"Listen," said the captain, in his most solemn tones. Then he read the amazing document, during which Private Spud Tamson grew red, then white, red again, and finally finished up in a sort of purple, apoplectic hue.
"Very serious, Tamson. I'm afraid you are a cabbage-hearted youth. And you seem to have been having the time of your life below stairs."