I had only an hour ago seen face to face so grizzly a memento, and of
which in all human probability I never was to hear more, looked out
dejectedly from the window, when, whom should I behold marching up the
street, at slow time, towards the Salmon House, but the identical old
soldier, cocked-hat, copper nose, great red single-breasted coat with
its prodigious wide button-holes, leggings, cane, and all, just under
the village tree.

'Here he is, oh! Uncle Charles, here he comes,' I cried.

'Eh, the soldier, is he?' said my uncle, tripping in the carpet in his
eagerness, and all but breaking the window.

'So it is, indeed; run down, my boy, and beg him to come up.'

But by the time I had reached the street, which you may be sure was not
very long, I found my uncle had got the window up and was himself
inviting the old boy, who having brought his left shoulder forward,
thanked the curate, saluting soldier-fashion, with his hand to his hat,
palm foremost. I've observed, indeed, than those grim old campaigners
who have seen the world, make it a principle to accept anything in the
shape of a treat. If it's bad, why, it costs them nothing; and if good,
so much the better.

So up he marched, and into the room with soldierly self-possession, and
being offered tea, preferred punch, and the ingredients were soon on the
little round table by the fire, which, the evening being sharp, was
pleasant; and the old fellow being seated, he brewed his nectar, to his
heart's content; and as we sipped our tea in pleased attention, he,
after his own fashion, commenced the story, to which I listened with an