A certain little gentleman attached to the army of Lord Wellington, while on the march in Portugal, once took up his quarters in the best house he could find, and having seen his horses well put up in the rear of it, retired to the best apartment to indulge himself in a cup of coffee; which luxury, with many others, he was, from the nature of his situation, enabled to carry with him, while others, his superiors, were obliged to put up with what they could procure en passant. Scarcely had his rapaz drawn off his boots and re-covered his feet with slippers, when it was announced to him, that an officer was below examining the stables, and had ordered his horses to be put up in them—that the officer’s baggage was already unloading at the door of the house—and that the officer himself had selected the quarters in preference to any other in the village.

The slippered possessor, in all the consequence of his grade, immediately determined that no man should turn him out of his quarters, unless he could establish fully a claim to a rank superior to his own—and that too pretty clearly; in which resolution he began to stride across the chamber with becoming dignity. At this moment the officer in question entered the apartment, and proceeded to inspect its conveniencies without observing the occupier, who with three formidable strides approached the intruder, and demanded what he wanted: which question was answered by the officer’s saying, that he wished to have the quarters in which he then stood.

“You shall not have them, Sir,” replied the little gentleman; (he was about four feet four inches in height; but a very respectable and dapper member of the army.) “You shall not have them, Sir—I am determined on that.”

“Pray Sir,” demanded the stranger with astonishment, “may I be permitted to inquire what is your rank in the army?”

“My rank, Sir,” replied the little disputant, considerably irritated; “my rank, Sir!”—At this moment he put his two hands into his side pockets in a style that perfectly astonished the listener—“I am, Sir—since you must know my rank—I am, Sir, Mr. Lewis, Apothecary to the Forces!”

“Indeed!” replied the stranger, “that rank, I presume, in taking quarters is equivalent to a Lieutenant’s?”

“Yes, Sir, it is, Sir,” rejoined the Apothecary to the Forces; “and now, Sir, let me ask you, Sir, what is your rank, Sir?”

“The only difference between our respective ranks is this,” said the stranger, “that you are Apothecary to the Forces;—I am Commander-in-Chief of the same forces; and now, Sir, I order you, to be out of these quarters in half an hour!”

The tiny gentleman stared; and with the most polite and submissive bow, (when he had recovered from the consternation into which the explanation had thrown him,) pulled out his watch and said, “Half an hour? your lordship—half an hour? that’s very short notice indeed:—say thirty-five minutes, and it shall be done.”

The Commander-in-Chief nodded assent, and laughing heartily, left the little gentleman to take his own time in removing.