He was a gen'lem'n born, sir, as had gone maskewerading.

One of our officers knowed him at 'ome, reckonises him, steps up, 'olds out his 'and right off, and says he: ''Ullo, Norrie, old chappie!' he says.

The other was coming up, as bold as look at it; didn't seem put out--that's where blood tells, sir! Well, no sooner does he 'ear his born name given him, than he turns as white as the Day of Judgment, stares at Mr.Sebright like he was looking at a ghost, and then (I give you my word of honour) turned to, and doubled up in a dead faint.

'Take him down to my berth,' says Mr.Sebright.

''Tis poor old Norrie Carthew,' he says." "And what--what sort of a gentleman was this Mr.Carthew ?" I gasped.
"The ward-room steward told me he was come of the best blood in England," was my friend's reply: "Eton and 'Arrow bred;--and might have been a bar'net!" "No, but to look at ?" I corrected him.
"The same as you or me," was the uncompromising answer: "not much to look at.