A sneer or a sniff

. . . and this I'll say for them, there wasn't a sneer or a sniff at my tweeds, such as you'd get from Frogs or Dagoes or our own reptilia; Vienna wasn't only polite, it was downright friendly and hospitable, putting a glass in my hand, coaxing me to the buffet, inquiring after my journey, asking how long I'd been in town . . .


Flashman and the Tiger, p.186, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2000.


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Flower of the 11th Hussars

Picture if you will that score of primitives with their painted faces and head-bands and ragged kilts and boots, fairly bristling with lances and hatchets, and in their midst the tall figure of the English gentlemen, flower of the 11th Hussars, with a white stripe across his face, his hair rank to his shoulders, his buckskins stinking to rival the Fleet Ditch, lance in fist and knife on hip—you’d never think he played at Lord’s or chatted with the Queen or been rebuked by Dr Arnold for dirty finger-nails (well, yes, you might) or been congratulated by my Lord Cardigan on his brilliant turnout.

Flashman and the Redskins, pp.181-2, Pan Books edition, 1983.

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Trumpets, turtles and titles

‘Titles?’ cries he, smiling. ‘They’re like fine clothes, penny trumpets, and turtle soup – all of slight but equal value.’

Flashman's Lady, p.147, Pan edition, 1979.

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