As we approached, a
constable put his staff across the doorway.
"Beg pardon, sir, but you are not in full dress."
Now this was the first night whereon I had sported my lieutenant's
uniform, and with my gold swab on my shoulder, the sparkling bullion
glancing in the corner of my eye at the very moment, my dress--sword by my
side, gold buckles in my shoes, and spotless white trowsers, I had, in my
innocence, considered myself a deuced killing fellow, and felt proportion
ably mortified at this address.
"No one can be admitted in trowsers, sir," said the man.
"Shiver my timbers!" I could not help the exclamation, the transactions of
the morning crowding on my recollection; "shiver my timbers! is my fate in
this strange country to be for ever irrevocably bound up in a pair of
breeches?"
My cousin pinched my arm.--"Hush, Tom; go home and get mamma's petticoat."
The man was peremptory; and as there was no use in getting into a squabble
about such a trifle, I handed my partner over to the care of a gentleman
of the party, who was fortunately accoutred according to rule, and,
stepping to my quarters, I equipped myself in a pair of tight nether
integuments, and returned to the ball--room. By this time there was the
devil to pay; the entrance saloon was crowded with military and naval men,
high in oath, and headed by no less a person than a general officer, and a
one--armed man, one of the chief civil officers in the place, and who had
been a sailor in his youth.
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