He stepped to the cupboard, opened it, and took down the time-rotten
regimentals. Slowly, very slowly, he divested himself of his
clothes, and, piece by piece, indued himself in the old finery.
At the breeches he paused; then drew them on hastily over his wooden
leg, and left them unbuttoned at the knees while he thrust his arms
into coat and waistcoat. Prison fare had reduced his waist, and the
garments hung limply about him. But the breeches were worst.
Around his wooden leg the buttons would not meet at all. And what to
do with the gaiter?
Methodically he unstrapped the leg and regarded it. Heavens! how for
these three years past he had hated it! He looked up. From the far
side of the room the bust watched him, still with its fatuous smile.
He rose in a sudden access of passion, gripping the leg, taking aim.
. . . A slight noise in the passage arrested him, and, leaning
against the door-jamb, he peered out. It was the woman with the
evening's milk, and she had set down the jug in the passage.
He closed the door, swayed a moment, and with a spring off his sound
leg, leapt on the still grinning bust and smote at it, crashing it
into pieces.
Mrs. Tiddy, the milkwoman, ran home declaring that, in the act of
delivering the usual two pennyworth at the hospital, she had seen the
ghost of the Major himself, in full regimentals, in the act of
assaulting his own statue; which, sure enough, was found next morning
scattered all over the floor.
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