They had drunk eight bottles of port, and in those days eight bottles could just put three gentlemen in pleasant humour. As the ninth bottle came on the table the Colonel cried—
"Come, Strepp, tell us that story of how your father lost his papers. Gad, that 's a good story."
"No, no," said the young lord. "It is n't a good story, and besides my father never tells it at all. I misdoubt it 's truth."
The Colonel pounded the table. "'T is true. 'T is too good a story to be false. You know the story, Forister?" said he, turning to the dark-skinned man. The latter shook his head.
"Well, when the Earl was a young man serving with the French he rather recklessly carried with him some valuable papers relating to some estates in the North, and once the noble Earl—or Lord Strepp as he was then—found it necessary, after fording a stream, to hang his breeches on a bush to dry, and then a certain blackguard of a wild Irishman in the corps came along and stole"
But I had arisen and called loudly but with dignity up the long table, "That, sir, is a lie." The room came still with a bang, if I may be allowed that expression. Every one gaped at me, and the Colonel's face slowly went the colour of a tiled roof.
"My father never stole his lordship's breeches, for the good reason that at the time his lordship had no breeches. 'T was the other way. My father"
Here the two long rows of faces lining the room crackled for a moment, and then every man burst into a thunderous laugh. But I had flung to the winds
