'Oh, I knew it at once; I saw you were military from your air, and I was
sure you could be none of the foot-wobblers, as my Nosebag calls them.
What regiment, pray?' Here was a delightful question. Waverley, however,
justly concluded that this good lady had the whole army-list by heart;
and, to avoid detection by adhering to truth, answered--'Gardiner's
dragoons, ma'am; but I have retired some time.'
'Oh aye, those as won the race at the battle of Preston, as my Nosebag
says. Pray, sir, were you there?'
'I was so unfortunate, madam,' he replied, 'as to witness that
engagement.'
'And that was a misfortune that few of Gardiner's stood to witness, I
believe, sir--ha! ha! ha!--I beg your pardon; but a soldier's wife loves
a joke.'
'Devil confound you!' thought Waverley; 'what infernal luck has penned
me up with this inquisitive bag!'
Fortunately the good lady did not stick long to one subject. 'We are
coming to Ferrybridge, now,' she said, 'where there was a party of OURS
left to support the beadles, and constables, and justices, and these
sort of creatures that are examining papers and stopping rebels, and all
that.' 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 'em.
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