“Lord! what a congregation of lies Peter will have to get rid of in the morning,” said the captain of grenadiers.
“I beg your pardon—he’ll deliver himself of the cargo in a shorter time—for that’s his cough, for a hundred!” responded a light-bob.
The lieutenant’s ear was correct; for in a few moments the denounced absentee modestly presented himself.
Had our meeting been in Kanischatka, I should have claimed Peter for a countryman at first sight. He was a stout, well-timbered fellow, of soldierly setting-up, and, as far as appearance went, perfectly content with himself, and at peace with all the world. To say that he was drunk, would not be true; to assert him sober, might have raised a controverted question: but leave it to the most charitable, and they would freely admit that Peter Crotty, in Connemara parlance, “had been looking at somebody drinking.”
“Arrrah, astore!” observed Mr. Philbin; “may the divil be your welcome! Here have we been waiting these six hours, expecting a little news—while you, no doubt, have visited every wine-house between our quarters and Frenada. By this book!” and Captain Philbin raised a horn drinking-vessel devoutly to his lips, “I’ve a mind to report you in the morning to Sir Lowry.”
“Never listen to him, Peter,” observed the grenadier; “you must be thirsty after your long ride.—Put that down your neck first, give us some fresh intelligence afterwards, and stick as close to the truth as you can conveniently.” And he presented to the new-comer a nondescript tin vessel, filled to the brim with wine.
Peter Crotty had really been thirsty; for he turned down the cup to the very bottom.
“Arrah—what kept ye, Peter?” inquired the first speaker.
“What kept me?—Why, business, and Lord Wellington.”
“Nonsense!”—