d of unearthly colours), he was frequently supposed by the more
ignorant and uninformed among the neighbours, to be the veritable
portrait of the host as he appeared on the occasion of some great
funeral ceremony or public mourning.

'What noisy fellow is that in the next room?' said Joe, when he had
disposed of his breakfast, and had washed and brushed himself.

'A recruiting serjeant,' replied the Lion.

Joe started involuntarily. Here was the very thing he had been dreaming
of, all the way along.

'And I wish,' said the Lion, 'he was anywhere else but here. The party
make noise enough, but don't call for much. There's great cry there, Mr
Willet, but very little wool. Your father wouldn't like 'em, I know.'

Perhaps not much under any circumstances. Perhaps if he could have known
what was passing at that moment in Joe's mind, he would have liked them
still less.

'Is he recruiting for a--for a fine regiment?' said Joe, glancing at a
little round mirror that hung in the bar.

'I believe he is,' replied the host. 'It's much the same thing, whatever
regiment he's recruiting for. I'm told there an't a deal of difference
between a fine man and another one, when they're shot through and
through.'

'They're not all shot,' said Joe.

'No,' the Lion answered, 'not all. Those that are--supposing it's done
easy--are the best off in my opinion.'

'Ah!' retorted Joe, 'but you don't care for glory.'

'For what?' said the Lion.

'Glory.'

'No,' returned the Lion, with supreme indifference. 'I don't. You're
right in that, Mr Willet. When Glory comes here, and calls for anything
to drink and changes a guinea to pay for it, I'll give it him for
nothing. It's my belief, sir, that the Glory's arms wouldn't do a very
strong business.'

These remarks were not at all comforting. Joe walked out, stopped at
the door of the next room, and listened. The serjeant was describing
a military life. It was all drinking, he said, except that there were
frequent intervals of eating and love-making. A battle was the finest
thing in the world--when your side won it--and Englishmen always did
that. 'Supposing you should be killed, sir?' said a timid voice in one
corner. 'Well, sir, supposing you should be,' said the serjeant, 'what
then? Your country loves you, sir; his Majesty King George the Third
loves you; your memory is honoured, revered, respected; everybody's fond
of you, and grateful to you; your name's wrote down at full length