When in a campaign, a man ought to be able to stow prog for twenty-four hours about his person, and no one the wiser.

A very good rule, I assure you, though it sometimes leads to awkward results.

At Vimeira, I got into a sad scrape that way.

Old Sir Harry, that commanded there, sent for the sick return.

I was at dinner when the orderly came, so I packed up the eatables about me, and rode off.
Just, however, as I came up to the quarters, my horse stumbled and threw me slap on my head.
"'Is he killed ?' said Sir Harry.
"'Only stunned, your Excellency,' said some one.
"'Then he'll come to, I suppose.