"I am not the rose, but I have lived with her," responded Forrester,
sententiously. "That's the principle of the thing. When a subaltern
arrives laden with gold, the barrack-yard is a perfect garden of
Bendemeer to the tradesmen."

"I believe it is precisely such regiments," remarked Bruce, "that the
political economists have in view when they attack the army estimates."

The observation was aggressive; but Charley's countenance was unruffled
as the Dead Sea as he answered, "Personal, but correct. You are intimate
with Joseph Hume, probably? You look as if you were." (These last words
were a stage aside, not quite so inaudible as could be wished.) "I think
we should fight, if we had a chance, though."

His lip wore a curious smile, and he raised himself on his arm to look
the last speaker full in the face.

"Of course you would," broke in Sir Henry; "that's not a peculiarity of
crack regiments or second sons. It's only in their baptism of fire that
the young ones shrink and start; after that, the meekest of men develop
themselves wonderfully. I heard an old Indian, the other day, speak of a
case in point.

"There was an officer in his service, mild and stupid to a degree. He
had been a butt all his life; bullied at school, at Addiscombe, and in
his corps worst of all.

"They were attacking a hill-fort, and the fire from wall-pieces and
matchlocks was so heavy that the storming-party would not face it. Among
those who retreated were two of his superior officers and chief