"Good marnin', Sor, an' moight Oi be afther thrubblin' yeez for a loight
to my poipe?"

"Certainly, with pleasure; glad to be of any use to a fellow
countryman," replied Coristine, looking up, and perceiving that his new
acquaintance, though old and stooped, had a soldierly air. "You have
been in service?" he continued.

"Troth I have, puff, puff, now she's goin' aisy. Oi was in the Furren
Laygion in South Ameriky, an' my cornel was the foinest man you iver
see. It was Frinch he was by his anshesters, an' his name it was
Jewplesshy. Wan toime we was foightin' wid the Spanyerds an' the poor
deluded haythen Injuns, when a shpint bullet rickyshayed an' jumped into
my mouth, knockin' out the toot' ye'll percaive is missin' here. Will,
now, the cornel he was lookin' at me, an', fwhen Oi shput out the bullet
and the broken toot' on the ground, he roides up to me, and says, says
he, 'It's a brave bhoy, yeez are, Moikle Terry, an' here's a' suverin to
get a new toot' put in whin the war is over, says he. Oh, that suverin
wint to kape company wid a lot more that Oi'd be proud to see the face
av in my owld age. But, sorra a toot' did the dintist put in for me, for
fwhere wud the nate hole for the poipe have been thin, till me that,
now?"

Mr. Coristine failed to answer this conundrum, but continued the
conversation with the old soldier. He learnt that Michael had
accompanied his colonel to Canada, and, after serving him faithfully for
many years, had wept over his grave. One of the old man's sons was a
sergeant in the Royal Artillery, and his daughter was married to a
Scotch farmer named Carruthers, up in the County of Grey.