“An-tho-ny!” I gasped in monosyllables.
“Well?”
“How—do—you—feel?”
“Monstrous shakey,” replied Anthony in dissyllables.
“I’m off!” cried I; and, losing my balance at the turn, I dropped like a sack of turnips.
However, I was none the worse for it. Had it not been for Anthony, and the dread of his report, I certainly think I should have bolted, and renounced the yeomanry for ever. But a courageous example does wonders. I persevered, and in a few days really made wonderful progress. I felt, however, considerably sore and stiff—straddled as I walked along the street, and was compelled to resort to diachylon. What with riding and the foot-drill I had hard work of it, and earnestly longed for the time when the regiment should go into quarters. I almost forgot to mention that Masaniello turned out to be an immense black brute, rather aged, but apparently sound, and, so far as I could judge, quiet. There was, however, an occasional gleam about his eye which I did not exactly like.
“He’ll carry you, sir, famously—no doubt of it,” said Kickshaw, who inspected him; “and, mind my words, he’ll go it at the charge!”
CHAPTER III.
It was a brilliant July morning when I first donned my regimentals for actual service. Dugald M’Tavish, a caddy from the corner of the street, had been parading Masaniello, fully caparisoned for action, before the door at least half an hour before I was ready, to the no small delectation of two servant hizzies who were sweeping out the stairs, and a diminutive baker’s boy.
“Tak’ a cup o’ coffee afore ye get up on that muckle funking beast, Maister George,” said Nelly; “and mind ye, that if ye are brocht hame this day wi’ yer feet foremost, it’s no me that has the wyte o’t.”