“What’s the row?”
“Here’s a new recruit for you. George M’Whirter, W.S. Book him down, and credit me with the bounty money.”
“The Edinburgh squadron, of course,” said Hargate, presenting me with a shilling.
“Don’t be in a hurry,” said one of my friends. “There are better lancers than the Templars. The Dalmahoy die, but they never surrender!”
“Barnton à la rescousse!” cried another.
“No douking in the Dalkeith!” observed a third.
“Nonsense, boys! you are confounding him. M’Whirter and Anthony Whaup shall charge side by side, and woe betide the insurgent who crosses their path!” said Randolph. “So the sooner you look after your equipments the better.”
In this identical manner was I enrolled as a full private in the Edinburgh squadron of the Mid-Lothian Yeomanry Cavalry.
CHAPTER II.
I confess that a thrill of considerable exultation pervaded my frame, as I beheld one morning on my dressing-table a parcel which conscience whispered to me contained the masterpiece of Buckmaster. With palpitating hand I cut the cord, undid the brown paper foldings, and feasted my eyes in a trance of ecstasy upon the pantaloons, all gorgeous with the red stripe; upon the jacket glittering with its galaxy of buttons, and the polished glory of the shoulder-scales. Not hurriedly, but with a protracted sense of keen enjoyment, I cased myself in the military shell, slung on the pouch-belt, buckled the sabre, and finally adjusted the magnificent helmet on my brows. I looked into the mirror, and scarcely could recognise the counterpart of Mars which confronted me.