'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.
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