Then they shuffled the dominoes and commenced again. But at this moment the full figure of Mr. b.u.mpkin again stood in the doorway.

"Joe!" he exclaimed angrily, "I want thee, come ere thirecly, I tell ee!"

"Yes, maister; I be comin."

"You stoopid fool!" said Mr. b.u.mpkin in a whisper, as Joe went up to him, "thee be playin with thic feller."

"Well, maister, if I be; what then?" Joe said this somewhat angrily, and Mr. b.u.mpkin replied:-

"He'll ha thee, Joe-he'll ha thee!"

"Nay, nay, maister; I be too old in the tooth for he; but it beant thy business, maister."

"No," said b.u.mpkin, as he turned away, "it beant."

Then Joe resumed his play. Now it happened that as the Sergeant smacked his lips when he took his occasional sip of the fragrant grog, expressive of the highest relish, it awakened a great curiosity in Wurzel's mind as to its particular flavour. The gla.s.s was never far from his nose and he had long enjoyed the extremely tempting odour. At last, as he was not invited to drink by Sergeant Goodtale, he could contain himself no longer, but made so bold as to say:-

"Pardner, med I jist taste this ere? I never did taste sich a thing."

"Certainly, partner," said the Sergeant, pushing the tumbler, which was about three-parts full. "What's the game now?"

"Ten-one," said Outofwork.

"One's all, then," said the Sergeant.

Joe took the tumbler, and after looking into it for a second or two as though he were mentally apostrophizing it, placed the gla.s.s to his lips.

"Don't be afraid," said the Sergeant.

No one seemed more courageous than Wurzel, in respect of the act with which he was engaged, and before he took the gla.s.s from his lips its contents had disappeared.

"I'm mighty glad thee spoke, Maister Sergeant, for if thee hadn't I should a drunk un all wirout thy leave. I never tasted sich tackle in my life; it's enough to make a man gie up everything for sogering."

"Domino!" said the Sergeant. "I think that's the game!"

"My dear," said my wife, "you have been talking again in your sleep."

"Really," said I, "I hope I have not compromised myself."

"I do not understand you," cried she.

"No more do I, for I am hardly awake."

"You have been talking of Joe Wurzel again."

"O, to be sure. What about him?"

"Then you mentioned Mr. Outofwork and Mr. Lazyman and Mr. Devilmecare, and another whose name I did not catch."

"Ah," I asked, "did they go for soldiers?"

"At present, no, except Harry, for whom I was heartily sorry, he seemed such a nice disappointed lad. But pray who is this Sergeant Goodtale?"

"He is on recruiting service, a very fine, persuasive fellow."

"But he didn't seem to press these people or use any arts to entice them: I like him for that. He rather seemed to me to discourage them from enlisting. He might have been sure poor Harry meant it, because, as I take it, he was half-starved, and yet he desired him to wait till the morning."

"I think," said I, "his conduct was artful if you examine it with reference to its effect on the others; but he is an extraordinary man, this Sergeant Goodtale-was never known to persuade any one to enlist, I believe."

"But he seemed to get along very well."

"Very; I thought he got along very comfortably."

"Then there was one Lucy Prettyface!"

"Ah, I don't remember her," cried I, alarmed lest I might have said anything in my dream for which I was not responsible.

"Why she was the girl who sewed the colours on and somebody called 'my dear.'"

"I a.s.sure you," I said, "it was not I: it must have been the Sergeant; but I have no recollection-O yes, to be sure, she was the waitress."

"You remember her now?"

"Well," said I, determined not to yield if I could possibly help it, "I can't say that I do. I know there was a person who sewed colours on and whom the Sergeant called 'my dear,' but further than that I should not like to pledge myself. Yes-yes-to be sure," and here I went on talking, as it were, to myself, for I find it is much better to talk to yourself if you find it difficult to carry on a conversation with other persons.

"She was pretty, wasn't she?" said my wife with an arch look.

I gave her a look just as arch, as I replied,

"Really I hardly looked at her; but I should say _not_." I make a point of never saying any one is pretty.

"Joe thought her so."

"Did he? Well she may have been, but I never went in for Beauty myself."

"You shocking man," said my wife, "do you perceive what you are saying?"

"Why, of course; but you take me up so sharply: if you had not cut me off in the flower of my speech you would have been gratified at the finish of my sentence. I was going to say, I never went in for Beauty, but once.

That, I think, gives the sentence a pretty turn."

"Well, now, I think these dreams and this talking in your sleep indicate that you require a change; what do you say to Bournemouth?"

"You think I shall sleep better there?"

"I think it will do you good."