the men. Some were to be billeted about the
town for the present, as the barracks were
not quite ready; and the officers' mess was
to be held at the inn, as the Doctor soon
ascertained. The latter familiarly tapped
one of the dragoons with his stick, and
motioned to him to stoop down, for
conversation.

"My poor fellows, you've had a dusty
ride of it. Fine man the colonel is, and as
good a horseman as ever had leather
between his legs. See here, my men, which
is your surgeon? I see him—Gamgee?
Doctor Gamgee—Scotch of course, Billy.
You see how they contrive to get all the
tinkering and soldiering of the glorious
human fabric into their own hands!" In a
moment the Doctor had edged up to that
officer, who had dismounted, and seemed
to be looking for something. "Allow me,
sir, to introduce myself—Doctor Findlater,
leading physician, surgeon, and ackershure
of this place, M.D. of the Royal College of
Physicians, Ireland. I should be proud,
Doctor Gamgee, to be of service to you."

The military surgeon replied in a strong
Scotch accent, and asked several questions,
on which the Doctor poured out a stream
of information, ending each with a "But
I'll put you in the way of all that!" By
the time the soldiers were ready to move
on, Doctor Gamgee was in possession of
the exact locality of the Doctor's house.

"You must have noticed the big place
as you came in, with the pretty girls in the
windows." He spoke of the extensive
practice he enjoyed, "not but that there was a
convenient margin for a man of ability, who
could be called in, in a ticklish case;" and
further, that below the level of the ground,
lay snug and sweet, gallons of the primest,
nicest, elixir vitæ, Scotch and Irish, which
the Lord Chief Justice himself might give
his eyes for. Indeed, one of the few truthful
boasts of the Doctor was this: "that
he'd make a friend in fewer minutes
than any man living;" and he had the
art, by a series of overpowering attentions,
compliments, &c., of forcing an intimacy,
an acquaintance at least, in spite of all
coldness and rebuffs. His final salute was
no less ingenious:

"Make what use you can of me, my dear
Gamgee; any further service I can do for
you I shall be delighted."

All this scene Doctor Findlater retailed
at his "family dinner," to his interested
family. He had ascertained, too, the names,
with a few particulars besides, of some of
the officers, and their general "likelihood"
for his purposes. "Nicest young fellows I
ever saw in a saddle: so gentlemanlike—
with money—such self-respect about their
bearing and demeanour.

"Polly, my sweet, I'll be sorry to lose
you, for you've been a good child to me.
But they're all young, with a fine spirit
among them, and I couldn't wish you
better off."

Polly looked down and blushed; then
looked up, her bright eyes dancing riotously
from side to side. "And they are very
handsome, aren't they, Peter, dear? We're
dying to know their names."

"Easy told," said the Doctor, reflectively.
"Of course, there's a per-centage
married. We can't help that. Bouchier,
the colonel, is, that's the regular thing.
Don't know about the major. Small isn't
though; neither is Kelsie, and I forgot, my
dears—there's young Leader among 'em—
just joined. But, of course, that's nothing."

This piece of news caused no excitement,
that august name being, as it were,
out of the sphere of any human
calculations. He was protected against the
influence of any enchanters' spells. It was
delightful talking over all this. Papa was
considered to have such genius, such powers
of carrying out whatever he took in hand,
that the bright Polly was looked on as
already lost to the family; and there was
about her an air of delighted enthusiasm
that was really piquant—her sister looking
at her with a fond pride.

"Polly will be cutting her old father
yet," he said, stirring his tumbler, "and
she'll be saying I'm not genteel enough for
her to keep company with."

The Doctor generally retired to his "study"
about ten o'clock: when he had supped, he
applied himself to medical researches. He
kept himself au courant with the strides
of science, which were indeed so disproportioned
to his modest step, that he would
complain seriously that "he hadn't wind
for such pedestrians," and gave it up as a
bad job. He liked just "running his eye"
over the Lancet, and to one of the quarterly
medical journals had actually contributed
a paper: "Findlater on Delusion." On the
present occasion, he was engaged with no
such studies, and, with one of "th' avannahs"
in his mouth, was smiling at some
project which seemed to be struggling
somewhere, out of the window cornice, when he
was startled by the sound of galloping,
a sudden plunging of hoofs, and stoppage
as sudden at his gate. Looking out,
cautiously, he saw a dragoon, and, in a moment,