Now my father’s opening address was not calculated to restore Petereeine’s mental serenity—­and to add to his uneasiness, he also caught sight of that infernal implement, the black-thorn, which, in treacherous repose, was resting at my father’s elbow.

“On with some wood, you vagabond.”

The order was obeyed—­and Petereeine conveyed a couple of billets safely from the basket to the grate.  The next essay, however, was a failure—­the third log fell—­and if the fall were not great, as it dropped on the fender, it certainly was very noisy.  The accident was harmless—­for, according to honest admeasurement, it evaded my father’s foot by a full yard—­but, under nervous alarm, he swore, and, as troopers will swear, that it had descended direct upon his afflicted member, and, consequently that he was ruined for life.  This was a subsequent explanation—­while the unhappy youth was extended on the hearth-rug, protesting innocence, and also declaring that his jaw-bone was fractured.  The fall of the billet and the boy were things simultaneous—­and while my mother, in great alarm, inculcated patience under suffering, and hinted at resignation, my father, in return, swore awfully, that no man with a toe of treble its natural dimensions, and scarlet as a soldiers jacket, had ever possessed either of those Christian articles.  My mother quoted the case of Job—­and my father begged to inquire if there was any authority to prove that Job ever had the gout?  In the mean time, the kitchen-boy had gathered himself up and departed—­and as he left the presence with his hand pressed upon his cheek, loud were his lamentations.  Constance and I—­nobody enjoyed the ridiculous more than she did—­laughed heartily, while the colonel resented this want of sympathy, by calling us a brace of fools, and expressing his settled conviction, that were he, the commander, hanged, we, the delinquents, would giggle at the foot of the gallows.

Such was the state of affairs, when the entrance of the chief butler harbingered other occurrences, and much more serious than Petereeine’s damaged jaw.  Mick Kalligan had been in the “heavies” with my father, and at Salamanca, had ridden the opening charge, side by side, with him, greatly to the detriment of divers Frenchmen, and much to the satisfaction of his present master.  In executing this achievement, Mick had been a considerable sufferer—­his ribs having been invaded by a red lancer of the guard—­while a chausseur-a-cheval had inserted a lasting token of his affection across his right cheek, extremely honorable, but by no means ornamental.

Mick laid a couple of newspapers, and as many letters, on the table—­but before we proceed to open either, we will favor the reader with another peep into our family history.