me in through the ranks of glittering
warriors, though up a rather dirty stone
staircase, which did not correspond. "I
made a mistake," he whispered, as we went
up, his arm on my shoulder. "That pickle
fellow is actually senior officer to-night,
and the colonel is away. What a swell
we are! 'Pon my word, a blue and silver
waistcoat!" A kind compliment that almost
made me blush.

Tom was in a loose open "shell jacket"
that seemed the perfection of elegant ease
and comfort. A number of officers, very
noisy, were standing round, also in loose
shell jackets; and by putting their hands
deep in their pockets and throwing their
jackets far back off their shoulders, they also
seemed to convey the perfection of elegant
ease. They were of all sizes, some, tall stout
men with rusty moustaches; others, little
round chubby men, while some seemed only
two or three years older than I was. One,
however, stood by himself, his back to the
fire and one hand behind his back. He
was reading a letter. A bald-headed,
bloodless, pinch-lipped person, without any
moustache. He looked, indeed, as the
brave Tom said, as if he had turned all the
blood he had into anchovy sauce for the
shop, and a poor condiment it would make.

Tom led me in, and actually brought me
up to this stiff being.

"Major Baker," he said boldly, "this is
my friend and guest." The other read on,
turned over the page, finished the sentence,
and then looked up.

"What! this lad?"

"Why not?" said Tom, reddening; "we
were once such a thing as a lad ourselves."

"You won't find me denying that,
Captain Butler; though some people
behave as lads all their lives."

Tom was going to reply, when some of
the officers came round, and the burly one,
whose chest stuck very much out of his
jacket, stooped down and spoke to me, and
asked, "was I going to be a soldier? I
answered readily, no: that, unfortunately,
it had been resolved I should go to the bar
when I came to the proper age to be called.
That it had been my own wish to follow
their profession, but that it seemed wiser
on the whole to choose the bar, owing to
the chances of becoming Lord High
Chancellor, or Judge, or Attorney-General. At
this they said, "O, indeed," and seemed
greatly interested. Seeing this, I would
have enlarged much more on this subject,
only some one announced dinner in a soft
voice, and we all moved in.

Such a scene of splendour! such gold
and silver, glass and flowers! I sat next
to the noble Tom ("You are my guest,
you know"), and close to the grim oil and
pickle major. Tom explained everything to
me. The four golden soldiers carrying a
casket on their heads in the centre, was a
"trophy" presented by a late colonel.

"Poor Stapleton," said Tom, raising his
voice, and speaking across to Griffin, "as
fine a fellow as ever stepped, and a true
gentleman, who, let me tell you, are
getting uncommon scarce. We didn't care for
his bit of plate, though it cost him a thousand
pounds; we missed his good nature
and gentlemanly heart."

There was great adhesion to this sentiment,
the stout man saying shortly, "devilish
good fellow, Stapleton." Tom then pointed
me out the Silver Tower, which the regiment
had bought in India, and paid five
hundred pounds for. An exquisite bit of
native workmanship.

"An exquisite bit of useless extravagance,"
said the major, austerely; "recollect
I opposed it at the time. We haven't
money to throw away on such gewgaws."

"Yes; you opposed it," said Tom, tossing
off champagne. "I'll bear you out in
that, Major Baker, you do that always."

"I said at the time," went on the major,
coldly, "when you have got it you won't
know what to do with it. And I was
right; you, Captain Butler, were the main
author of the scheme, and forced it on, and
to this hour you can't tell what use it could
be turned to."

"I think," the stout Griffin said, "it
would be a very neat thing for Yorkshire
pie in the morning at breakfast."

"Only the good bits would get all stuck
in the towers. You're a precious one."

"No," said the major, coldly, "not half
so much so as the original promoter of the
scheme. Making it a dish for a pie is
better than planning what could be of use
to no mortal born."

The brave Tom Butler's cheeks were
flaming, and, in a steady voice, he said,
slowly, "I tell you what I think we could
make of it—a handsome cruet-stand, with
compartments for the pepper and pickles,
and mustard and anchovies. It's the very
thing."

Even I understood. There was a silence
for a moment, but the good-natured fat
man struck in, and changed the subject.

"The pleasure of a glass of champagne
with you, Mr. Fitz-Carter," he said, bowing
to me. I bowed to him in return. A