It  was  tiffin  (i.  e.,  luncheon)  time  in  the  garrison

of  ,  in  Ceylon  ;  that  long  anticipated  glorious

hour  of  the  twenty-four,  which  proclaims  the  eight
interminable  ones  following  the  morning's  parade  to
be  knocked  on  the  head  for  that  day  at  least —
those  hours  so  vividly  remembered,  in  which,  like
miserable  ghosts,  the  dwellers  in  barracks  wander  for-
lornly up  and  down  the  corridors,  puffing  Manilla
cheroots,  desperately  asking  every  body  they  mo-
mentarily encounter  "what  o'clock  it  is,"-— and  bully-
ing the  messman  because  it  is  not  an  hour  later ;
sighing  for  "  two,  P.M.  ;"  as  if  it  were  the  moment
they  had  lived  all  their  lives  to  survive  and  be
millenium-ized!

It  was  tiffin  time,  and  a  dozen  of  us  had  tallyho'd
the  first  mess-waiter  with  the  first  dish  of  curry  into
the  mess-room,  when  the  major  (who,  bless  his  old
soul !  is  now  quartered  in  Heaven)  made  his  appear-
ance at  table  among  us  ("  his  boys,"  as  he  used  to
call  us),  bearing  on  his  shoulders  a  physiognomy —

Eheu !  tantum  mutatus  ab  illo !

in  which  he  had  left  us  the  night  before,  as  to  make
it  evident  that  there  was  a  screw  loose  :  and  it  was
not  until  the  worthy  old  soul  had  drained  a  tumbler
full  of  "  claret  cup"  at  a  draft  (a  compound,  good
reader!  of  claret,  mint,  sugar,  and  nutmeg,  iced —


24  THE  OUT-STATION;  on,

try  it,  if  you  are  ignorant  of  the  quality),  that  we
could  get  the  remotest  inkling  as  to  how  the  jolly
countenance  of  that  religious  devotee  to  Bacchus
could  be  so  "  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of
thought."

But  the  major  shall  tell  his  own  story — the  first
and  last  dealings  he  ever  had  with  the  Firm  of  Bruin
and  Co.
