B.—"I remember the well—twelve feet, three inches and a half, was the exact depth of the excavation occasioned by the fall."
C.—"There you are wrong; only eleven feet, three inches—"
B.—"No, believe me, I am right; twelve feet, and three inches to a barleycorn."
C.—"Never mind: a little, this way or that, is of no consequence. The most extraordinary thing was, that the gallant colonel only sprained his right arm."
B.—"By no means extraordinary. You remember the great gun of Agra, in which a regiment of cavalry used to drill."
C—"I do. The one that fired the stone ball to the wall of Futtipoore Sikrah—twenty miles."
B.—"The same. Well, when that gun was fired, a thing that never occurred but once, the head of the rash man who fired it was afterwards found in the Old Woman's Tank, eleven miles from the spot, without so much as a blemish, except a slight singing of the right whisker."
C.—"Ah! I can never forget the time; I had just landed in Calcutta when we heard the report. Some of the wadding went as far as Cawnpore."
Here the trumpet, sounding for morning drill, put a stop to the colloquy.—Englishman's Magazine.