t at the tale
of my love.

But it would not do--old Jowler seemed to have taken all of a sudden to
such a fit of domesticity, that there was no finding him out of doors,
and his rhubarb-colored wife (I believe that her skin gave the
first idea of our regimental breeches), who before had been gadding
ceaselessly abroad, and poking her broad nose into every menage in the
cantonment, stopped faithfully at home with her spouse. My only chance
was to beard the old couple in their den, and ask them at once for their
cub.

So I called one day at tiffin:--old Jowler was always happy to have my
company at this meal; it amused him, he said, to see me drink Hodgson's
pale ale (I drank two hundred and thirty-four dozen the first year I was
in Bengal)--and it was no small piece of fun, certainly, to see old Mrs.
Jowler attack the currie-bhaut;--she was exactly the color of it, as I
have had already the honor to remark, and she swallowed the mixture with
a gusto which was never equalled, except by my poor friend Dando apropos
d'huitres. She consumed the first three platefuls with a fork and spoon,
like a Christian; but as she warmed to her work, the old hag would throw
away her silver implements, and dragging the dishes towards her, go to
work with her hands, flip the rice into her mouth with her fingers, and
stow away a quantity of eatables sufficient for a sepoy company. But why
do I diverge from the main point of my story?

Julia, then, Jowler, and Mrs. J. were at luncheon: the dear girl was in
the act to sabler a glass of Hodgson as I entered. "How do you do, Mr.
Gagin?" said the old hag, leeringly. "Eat a bit o' currie-bhaut,"--and
she thrust the dish towards me, securing a heap as it passed. "What!
Gagy my boy, how do, how do?" said the fat Colonel. "What! run through
the body?--got well again--have some Hodgson--run through your body
too!"--and at this, I may say, coarse joke (alluding to the fact that
in these hot climates the ale oozes out as it were from the pores of the
skin) old Jowler laughed: a host of swarthy chobdars, kitmatgars, sices,
consomahs, and bobbychies laughed too, as they provided me, unasked,
with the grateful fluid. Swallowing six tumblers of it, I paused
nervously for a moment, and then said--

"Bobbachy, consomah, ballybaloo hoga."

The black ruffians took the hint and retired.

"Colonel and Mrs. Jowler," said I solemnly, "we are alone; and you,
Miss Jowler, you are alone too; that is--I mean--I