' They were hardly in the inn before she dragged Waverley to the
window, exclaiming, 'Yonder comes Corporal Bridoon, of our poor dear
troop; he's coming with the constable man. Bridoon's one of my lambs, as
Nosebag calls 'ern. Come, Mr.--a--a--pray, what's your name, sir?'
'Butler, ma'am,' said Waverley, resolved rather to make free with the
name of a former fellow-officer than run the risk of detection by
inventing one not to be found in the regiment.
'O, you got a troop lately, when that shabby fellow, Waverley, went over
to the rebels? Lord, I wish our old cross Captain Crump would go over to
the rebels, that Nosebag might get the troop! Lord, what can Bridoon be
standing swinging on the bridge for? I'll be hanged if he a'nt hazy, as
Nosebag says. Come, sir, as you and I belong to the service, we'll go put
the rascal in mind of his duty.'
Waverley, with feelings more easily conceived than described, saw himself
obliged to follow this doughty female commander. The gallant trooper was
as like a lamb as a drunk corporal of dragoons, about six feet high, with
very broad shoulders, and very thin legs, not to mention a great scar
across his nose, could well be.
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