‘Ay do I, Sir, well,’ with the same queer smile, he answered.  ’Come, now, you’re a grave-digger, my fine fellow,’ he continued, accosting the sexton cynically; ’how long do you suppose that skull’s been under ground?’

’Long enough; but not so long, my fine fellow, as yours has been above ground.’

‘Well, you’re right there, for I seen him buried,’ and he took the skull from the sexton’s hands; ’and I’ll tell you more, there was some dry eyes, too, at his funeral—­ha, ha, ha!’

‘You were a resident in the town, then?’ said my uncle, who did not like the turn his recollections were taking.

‘Ay, Sir, that I was,’ he replied; ’see that broken tooth, there—­I forgot ’twas there—­and the minute I seen it, I remembered it like this morning—­I could swear to it—­when he laughed; ay, and that sharp corner to it—­hang him,’ and he twirled the loose tooth, the last but two of all its fellows, from’ its socket, and chucked it into the grave.

‘And were you—­you weren’t in the army, then?’ enquired the curate, who could not understand the sort of scoffing dislike he seemed to bear it.

‘Be my faith I was so, Sir—­the Royal Irish Artillery,’ replied he, promptly.

‘And in what capacity?’ pursued his reverence.

‘Drummer,’ answered the mulberry-faced veteran.

‘Ho!—­Drummer?  That’s a good time ago, I dare say,’ said my uncle, looking on him reflectively.

‘Well, so it is, not far off fifty years,’ answered he.  ’He was a hard-headed codger, he was; but you see the sprig of shillelagh was too hard for him—­ha, ha, ha!’ and he gave the skull a smart knock with his walking-cane, as he grinned at it and wagged his head.

‘Gently, gently, my good man,’ said the curate, placing his hand hastily upon his arm, for the knock was harder than was needed for the purpose of demonstration.

’You see, Sir, at that time, our Colonel-in-Chief was my Lord Blackwater,’ continued the old soldier, ’not that we often seen him, for he lived in France mostly; the Colonel-en-Second was General Chattesworth, and Colonel Stafford was Lieutenant-Colonel, and under him Major O’Neill; Captains, four—­Cluffe, Devereux, Barton, and Burgh:  First Lieutenants—­Puddock, Delany, Sackville, and Armstrong; Second Lieutenants—­Salt; Barber, Lillyman, and Pringle; Lieutenant Fireworkers—­O’Flaherty—­’

‘I beg your pardon,’ interposed my uncle, ‘Fireworkers, did you say?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘And what, pray, does a Lieutenant Fireworker mean?’

’Why, law bless you, Sir! a Fireworker! ’twas his business to see that the men loaded, sarved, laid, and fired the gun all right.  But that doesn’t signify; you see this old skull, Sir:  well, ‘twas a nine days’ wonder, and the queerest business you ever heerd tell of.  Why, Sir, the women was frightened out of their senses, an’ the men puzzled out o’ their wits—­they wor—­ha, ha, ha! an’ I can tell you all about it—­a mighty black and bloody business it was—­’