Lovell.—Indeed! what did he say?
Oldham.—Never you mind what he said; he'll never say it to you. An infernal system when fellows sit at a desk and think they're soldiers. I'm no office man, damme! leading on is my forte; let them promote quill-drivers and milksops if they like, what does Dick Oldham care? I've been bred among the right sort, and I'll go to my grave a real soldier, if not a fortunate one.
O'Sheevo.—That's true, Oldham; when they fire over you, old boy, 'twont be the first time you smelt powder.
Lovell.—I hope Oldham will have another meeting or two with his old friends over the water before that.
Oldham.—Oh! confound it! don't say a word about it; they'll soon forget what a soldier used to be. It's sickening—by Jove! sickening. I'd have been a colonel of infantry before now, if there'd been any thing like justice. Never mind.
O'Sheevo.—It's not too late yet. They must have soldiers where there's danger; they'll restore the old second battalion of the 107th, when the French come, and you'll command it yet.
Oldham.—Ugh! bother! (Sleeps.)
Pipeclay.—I thought so. The detail of his grievances, and a lamentation over modern degeneracy, are generally the prelude to a nap; fine old fellow, if he wasn't so sadly bigoted.
O'Sheevo.—Yes, but when means are scarce, men are driven into extremes; we sometimes overrate our capacities; if our friend here were to be put into a colonel of infantry's shoes to-morrow, he'd not find his position a bed of roses.
Lovell.—I wish he'd gone on about the coast defences, that's what I wanted to hear.