It was the witching time for Story-telling.  “Our whole life, Travellers,” said I, “is a story more or less intelligible,—­generally less; but we shall read it by a clearer light when it is ended.  I, for one, am so divided this night between fact and fiction, that I scarce know which is which.  Shall I beguile the time by telling you a story as we sit here?”

They all answered, yes.  I had little to tell them, but I was bound by my own proposal.  Therefore, after looking for awhile at the spiral column of smoke wreathing up from my brown beauty, through which I could have almost sworn I saw the effigy of Master Richard Watts less startled than usual, I fired away.

CHAPTER II—­THE STORY OF RICHARD DOUBLEDICK

In the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine, a relative of mine came limping down, on foot, to this town of Chatham.  I call it this town, because if anybody present knows to a nicety where Rochester ends and Chatham begins, it is more than I do.  He was a poor traveller, with not a farthing in his pocket.  He sat by the fire in this very room, and he slept one night in a bed that will be occupied to-night by some one here.

My relative came down to Chatham to enlist in a cavalry regiment, if a cavalry regiment would have him; if not, to take King George’s shilling from any corporal or sergeant who would put a bunch of ribbons in his hat.  His object was to get shot; but he thought he might as well ride to death as be at the trouble of walking.

My relative’s Christian name was Richard, but he was better known as Dick.  He dropped his own surname on the road down, and took up that of Doubledick.  He was passed as Richard Doubledick; age, twenty-two; height, five foot ten; native place, Exmouth, which he had never been near in his life.  There was no cavalry in Chatham when he limped over the bridge here with half a shoe to his dusty feet, so he enlisted into a regiment of the line, and was glad to get drunk and forget all about it.

You are to know that this relative of mine had gone wrong, and run wild.  His heart was in the right place, but it was sealed up.  He had been betrothed to a good and beautiful girl, whom he had loved better than she—­or perhaps even he—­believed; but in an evil hour he had given her cause to say to him solemnly, “Richard, I will never marry another man.  I will live single for your sake, but Mary Marshall’s lips”—­her name was Mary Marshall—­“never address another word to you on earth.  Go, Richard!  Heaven forgive you!” This finished him.  This brought him down to Chatham.  This made him Private Richard Doubledick, with a determination to be shot.

There was not a more dissipated and reckless soldier in Chatham barracks, in the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine, than Private Richard Doubledick.  He associated with the dregs of every regiment; he was as seldom sober as he could be, and was constantly under punishment.  It became clear to the whole barracks that Private Richard Doubledick would very soon be flogged.