“I’m the man,” explained Mr. Waddy. “I should think I could eat pork and fish. I’ve lived in Boston.”
“Wal, capting, come along if yer like,” said Hawkins heartily, “an’ it shan’t cost yer a durned cent. ’Tain’t every feller I’d take, but I feel kinder ’bleeged to yer fer pickin’ up Sam.”
Mr. Waddy would not consent to be a dead-head, but took pay passage at once, to start at two. Meanwhile he strolled about the town, and climbing the steep glacis, admired the glorious bay and the impregnable fort. He was entering when his way was stopped by the sentinel.
“No one admitted without special order,” announced that functionary.
“My old friend Mr. Waddy has special entrée everywhere!” cried a passing officer, laying his hand on Ira’s shoulder. “My dear fellow, you wouldn’t let me thank you at Inkerman for dropping that Cossack. Now I intend to pepper you with gratitude.”
“Oh, no! we never mention it, Granby,” retorted Ira, warmly grasping the extended hand, “unless you need reminding how you dropped the rhinoceros who wouldn’t drop me. By the way, I’ve had a match-box made of his horn.”
He pulled out his cigar-case and the match-box. They each took a cigar and walked off together to Major Granby’s quarters, as coolly as if the reciprocal life-saving they had recalled was an everyday business.
“How in the name of Mercury came you here?” asked the major, after they were seated.
“Ginger beer—gingerbread, beer,” murmured Waddy abstractedly. “Bass’ Pale Ale. Yes—ah, well!”
“What, ho! Patrick!” called the major. “Here’s Mr. Waddy come back and wants his ale!”