"Come, Captain, we are not on service now," quoth one.
"Aren't you?" said he, looking darkly at them.
"No, not we!" cried the other recklessly, "and what is more, we will have no 'Regiment du Roi' regulations here! Is not a gentleman to have a second bottle if he wants one?"
"It is twelve o'clock," replied the Captain. "For the love of Heaven, man, wait till this business is over; and then drink until you burst, if you please! For me, I am going to bed."
"But who is this--lord! I don't know what to call him!" the fellow retorted, turning to me with a half-drunken gesture. "This Gentleman Dancing Master?"
"A messenger from the old Fox: Mr.--Taylor, I think he calls himself?" and the officer turned to me.
"Yes," said I.
"Well, you may go. Tell the gentleman who sent you that Wilkins got his note, and will bear the matter in mind."
I said I would; and was going with that, and never more glad than to be out of that company. But the fellow who had asked who I was, and who, being thwarted of his drink, was out of temper, called rudely to know where I got my wig, and who rigged me out like a lord; swearing that Ferguson's service must be a d----d deal better than the one he was in, and the pay higher than a poor trooper's.
This gave the cue to the man who had before forced the drink on me; who, still having the cup in his hand, thrust himself in my way, and forcing the liquor on me so violently that he spilled some over my coat, vowed that though all the Scotch colonels in the world barred the way, I should drink his toast, or he would skewer me.