In fact, whenever a Purple Dragoon fell in love, the object of his affections immediately pretended to love someone else. Hard lines, but soldiers were born to suffer. It is so easy, so true, so usual to say, "there's another day to-morrow," but that never helped even a Purple Dragoon to worry through to-day any the quicker. Poor, brave, noble, drawling, manly, pipe-smoking fellows! On this particular occasion FOOTLES uttered only one word. It was short, and began with the fourth letter of the alphabet. But he may be pardoned, for some of the glowing embers from his magnificent briar-wood pipe had dropped on to his regulation overalls. The result was painful—to FOOTLES. All the others laughed as well as they could, with clays, meerschaums, briars, and asbestos pipes in their mouths. And through the thick cloud of scented smoke the mess-waiter came into the room, bearing in his hand a large registered letter, and coughing violently.
CHAPTER II.
"The mouse ran up the clock."
—Nursery Rhyme.
The waiter advanced slowly to FOOTLES, and handed him the letter. FOOTLES took it meditatively, and turned it over in both hands. The post-marks were illegible, and the envelope much crumpled. "Never mind," thought FOOTLES, to himself, "it will dry straight—it will dry straight." He always thought this twice, because it was one of his favourite phrases. At last he decided to open it. As he broke the seal a little cry was heard, and suddenly, before even EMILY had had time to say "I nev-ah!" a charming and beautifully dressed girl, of about fifteen summers, sprang lightly from the packet on to the mess-room floor, and kissed her pretty little hand to the astonished Dragoons.
"You're FOOTLES," she said, skipping up to the thunder-stricken owner of the name. "I know you very well. I'm going to be your daughter, and you're going to marry my mother. Oh, it's all right," she continued, as she observed FOOTLES press his right hand convulsively to the precise spot on his gorgeous mess-waistcoat under which he imagined his heart to be situated, "it's all right. Pa's going to be comfortably killed, and put out of the way, and then you'll marry darling Mamma. She'll be a thousand times more beautiful at thirty-three than she was at twenty-two, and ever so much more lovely at fifty-five than at thirty-three. So it's a good bargain, isn't it, EM?" This to EMILY, who appeared confused. She trotted up to him, and laid her soft blooming cheek against his blooming hard one. "Never mind, EM," she lisped, "everything is bound to come out right. I've settled it all"—this with a triumphant look on her baby-face—"with the author; such a splendid writer, none of your twaddling women-scribblers, but a real man, and a great friend of mine. I'm to marry you, EM. You don't know it, because you once loved NAOMI, who 'mawrwried the Wrevewrend SOLOMON'"—at this point most of the Purple Dragoons were rude enough to yawn openly. She paid no attention to them—"and now you love OLIVE, but she loves PARKACK, and he doesn't love her, so she has got to marry PARKOSS, whom she doesn't love. Their initials are the same, and everybody knows their caligraphy is exactly alike," she went on wearily, "so that's how the mistake arose. It's a bit far-fetched, but," and her arch smile as she said this would have melted a harder heart than Captain EMILY's, "we mustn't be too particular in a soldier's tale, you know."
As she concluded her remarks the door opened, and Colonel PURSER entered the room.
CHAPTER III.
"Pat a cake, pat a cake, baker's man."
—Old Ballad.