sight heavier ‘n he was, along o’ the leaud in his old carkidge.”  Constable Rigby laughed at the wounds of the day, and characterized them as mere scratches, unworthy of mention in casualty despatches.  “There was a man of ours, an acting corporal, called Brattles, in the melee at Inkerman, who broke the tip of his bagginet off in one Rooshian, and the butt of it in another.  Then he had nothing to do but to club with what the French call the crosse.  He forgot that he had not emptied his gun of the last charge so, just as he had floored his fourth Rooshian, the piece went off into his left breast, and the bullet ran clear down him and came out of his boot under the hollow of the left foot.  Captain Clarkson thought he was done for; but Brattles asked him for two champagne corks, plugged up the incoming and the outgoing wounds with them, and stuck to it till the Rooshian bugles sounded the retreat.  That I call a wound to speak of.”  Tryphena, who had listened to this story of her elderly admirer with becoming gravity, ventured to ask:  “Do officers carry champagne corks about with them on the battle-field, Corporal Rigby?”

“Not all officers, Miss Hill.  I never heard that Lord Raglan or Sir Colin did.  But the young fellows, of course.  How else could they blacken each other’s faces?”

“Do they do that?”

“Regular.  There was a subaltern they called Baby Appleby, he was so white-skinned and light-haired.  Well, one night we had to turn out for an alarm in the dark, and charged two miles up to the rifle pits of the first line.  When we came back, the colonel halted us for inspection before dismiss.  When he came to Mr. Appleby, he turns to his captain and says:  ‘Where did you get this nigger in uniform, Ford?’ The captain looked at him and roared, for poor Mr. Appleby was as black as Maguffin.  The gentlemen had amused themselves corking him when he was asleep.”

“Yoh finds it mighty easy, consterble, ter say disrespeckshus remahks on cullud folks,” said the temporary barber, entering at that moment.  “Ef the Lawd made as dahk complected, I specks the Lawd knowed what He was a doin’, and didn’t go foh ter set white folks a-sneezin’ at ’em.  I’se flissertaten myself ebery day yoh cayn’t cohk me inter a white folks.”

“They’s whitewaush, Maguffin,” interpolated Ben.  “A good heavy coaut o’ whitewaush ’ud make a gashly Corkashun of you.”

“Yah! yah! yah!  I’se got a brudder as perfesses whitewashin’ an’ colourin’.  When he’s done got a job, he looks moh like the consterble’s brudder nor myuns, yah! yah! yah!”

The corporal frowned, and went on with his breakfast, while Mr. Maguffin gave an account of his shaving adventure, and of the sight of that poor man whose moustache had been trimmed by a non-professional.