“‘Arrah, then,’ replies the general, ‘I wouldn’t for a thirty-shillin note ye had gone home, without my seeing ye. Peter, step in and be off’, and shut the doer after ye,’ says he to the aide-de-camp; ‘I’m not at home, if any one inquires this evening. And now, Grotty dear, draw a camp-stool, and bring your heels to an anchor.—Ned, says he, for they called one another by their names; ‘hand Mr. Crotty a glass. And now, Peter, raise y’er elbow a trifle, and fill fair. Is there any news astir:’
“‘Nothing,’ says I, ‘unless your lordship has it.’
“‘Had ye anything to ate on the road?’ says he. ‘We could get ye a broiled bone in half a jiffy.’
‘Too much trouble,’ says I, ‘my lord; I took a bit with the Eighty-eighth, as I was coming along.’
“‘Oh! bad luck to the same lads, Sir Thomas Picton,’ says he.
“‘They’re makin’ an ould man of me, the thieves! The divil himself—Christ pardon us! wouldn’t keep them tolerably reg’lar.’
“He didn’t say ‘Christ pardon us!’ Peter.”
“He did,” returned the narrator. “Do you think that he stopped to pick and choose his words in the company of friends?”
“Well, go on Peter.” *
“All this time, Sir Thomas, and General Paekenham, never said a word; but, like a priest after confessions, they lathered away at the drinking.”