'It
goes to the heart.'
The Major, when I motioned him to help himself, did so with a good
deal of liberality; continued to do so for the rest of the morning,
now with some sort of apology, now with none at all; and the bottle
began to look foolish before dinner was served. It was such a meal
as he had himself predicted: beef, greens, potatoes, mustard in a
teacup, and beer in a brown jug that was all over hounds, horses,
and hunters, with a fox at the fat end and a gigantic John Bull--
for all the world like Fenn--sitting in the midst in a bob-wig and
smoking tobacco. The beer was a good brew, but not good enough for
the Major; he laced it with brandy--for his cold, he said; and in
this curative design the remainder of the bottle ebbed away. He
called my attention repeatedly to the circumstance; helped me
pointedly to the dregs, threw the bottle in the air and played
tricks with it; and at last, having exhausted his ingenuity, and
seeing me remain quite blind to every hint, he ordered and paid for
another himself.
As for the Colonel, he ate nothing, sat sunk in a muse, and only
awoke occasionally to a sense of where he was, and what he was
supposed to be doing. On each of these occasions he showed a
gratitude and kind courtesy that endeared him to me beyond
expression.
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