I was out with him in '92,--was it?
no, I think it was '93,--when he shot Harry Burgoyne, who, by-the-bye, was called the crack shot of our mess; but, begad, your uncle knocked his pistol hand to shivers, saying, in his dry way, 'He must try the left hand this morning.' Count, a little this side, if you please." While Considine and the captain walked a few paces apart from where I stood, I had leisure to observe my antagonist, who stood among a group of his friends, talking and laughing away in great spirits.

As the tone they spoke in was not of the lowest, I could catch much of their conversation at the distance I was from them.

They were discussing the last occasion that Bodkin had visited this spot, and talking of the fatal event which happened then.
"Poor devil," said Bodkin, "it wasn't his fault; but you see some of the -- th had been showing white feathers before that, and he was obliged to go out.

In fact, the colonel himself said, 'Fight, or leave the corps.' Well, out he came; it was a cold morning in February, with a frost the night before going off in a thin rain.

Well, it seems he had the consumption or something of that sort, with a great cough and spitting of blood, and this weather made him worse; and he was very weak when he came to the ground.
Now, the moment I got a glimpse of him, I said to myself, 'He's pluck enough, but as nervous as a lady;' for his eye wandered all about, and his mouth was constantly twitching.