Soldiers Three

PRIVATE LEAROYD’S STORY

FAR from the haunts of Company Officers who insist upon kit-inspections, far from keen-nosed Sergeants who sniff the pipe stuffed into the bedding-roll, two miles from the tumult of the barracks, lies the Trap. It is an old dry well, shadowed by a twisted pipal tree and fenced with high grass. Here, in the years gone by, did Private Ortheris establish his depot and menagerie for such possessions, dead and living, as could not safely be introduced to the barrack-room. Here were gathered Houdin pullets, and fox-terriers of undoubted pedigree and more than doubtful ownership, for Ortheris was an inveterate poacher and pre-eminent among a regiment of neat-handed dog-stealers.

Never again will the long lazy evenings return wherein Ortheris, whistling softly, moved surgeon-wise among the captives of his craft at the bottom of the well; when Learoyd sat in the niche, giving sage counsel on the management of ‘tykes,’ and Mulvaney, from the crook of the overhanging pipal, waved his enormous boots in benediction above our heads, delighting us with tales of Love and War, and strange experiences of cities and men.

Ortheris – landed at last in the ‘little stuff bird-shop’ for which your soul longed; Learoyd – back again in the smoky, stone-ribbed North, amid the clang of the Bradford looms; Mulvaney – grizzled, tender, and very wise Ulysses, sweltering on the earthwork of a Central India line – judge if I have forgotten old days in the Trap!

Orth’ris, as allus thinks he knaws more than other foaks, said she wasn’t a real laady, but nobbut a Hewrasian. I don’t gainsay as her culler was a bit doosky like. But she was a laady. Why, she rode iv a carriage, an’ good ‘osses, too, an’ her ‘air was that oiled as you could see your faice in it, an’ she wore dimond rings an’ a goold chain, an’ silk an’ satin dresses as mun ‘a’ cost a deal, for it isn’t a cheap shop as keeps enough o’ one pattern to fit a figure like hers. Her name was Mrs. DeSussa, an’t’ waay I coom to be acquainted wi’ her was along of our Colonel’s Laady’s dog Rip.

I’ve seen a vast o’ dogs, but Rip was t’ prettiest picter of a cliver fox-tarrier ‘at iver I set eyes on. He could do owt you like but speeak, an’ t’ Colonel’s Laady set more store by him than if he hed been a Christian. She hed bairns of her awn, but they was i’ England, and Rip seemed to get all t’ coodlin’ and pettin’ as belonged to a bairn by good right.

But Rip were a bit on a rover, an’ hed a habit o’ breakin’ out o’ barricks like, and trottin’ round t’ plaice as if he were t’ Cantonment Magistrate coom round inspectin’. The Colonel leathers him once or twice, but Rip didn’t care an’ kept on gooin’ his rounds, wi’ his taail a-waggin’ as if he were flag-signallin’ to t’ world at large ‘at he was ‘gettin’ on nicely, thank yo’, and how’s yo’sen?’ An’ then t’ Colonel, as was noa sort of a hand wi’ a dog, tees him oop. A real clipper of a dog, an’ it’s noa wonder yon laady. Mrs. DeSussa, should tek a fancy tiv him. Theer’s one o’ t’ Ten Commandments says yo’ maun’t cuwet your neebor’s ox nor his jackass, but it doesn’t say nowt about his tarrier dogs, an’ happen thot’s t’ reason why Mrs. DeSussa cuvveted Rip, tho’ she went to church reg’lar along wi’ her husband who was so mich darker ‘at if he hedn’t such a good coaat tiv his back yo’ might ha’ called him a black man and nut tell a lee nawther. They said he addled his brass i’ jute, an’ he’d a rare lot on it.

Well, you seen, when they teed Rip up, t’ poor awd lad didn’t enjoy very good ‘elth. So t’ Colonel’s Laady sends for me as ‘ad a naame for bein’ knowledgeable about a dog, an’ axes what’s ailin’ wi’ him.

‘Why,’ says I, ‘he’s getten t’ mopes, an’ what he wants is his libbaty an’ coompany like t’ rest on us, wal happen a rat or two ‘ud liven him oop. It’s low, mum,’ says I, ‘is rats, but it’s t’ nature of a dog; an’ soa’s cuttin’ round an’ meetin’ another dog or two an’ passin’ t’ time o’ day, an’ hevvin’ a bit of a turn-up wi’ him like a Christian.’

So she says her dog maunt niver fight an’ noa Christians iver fought.

‘Then what’s a soldier for?’ says I; an’ I explains to her t’ contrairy qualities of a dog, ‘at, when yo’ coom to think on’t, is one o’t’ curusest things as is. For they larn to behave theirsens like gentlemen born, fit for t’ fost o’ coompany – they tell me t’ Widdy herself is fond of a good dog and knaws one when she sees it as well as onny body: then on t’ other hand a-tewin’ round after cats an’ gettin’ mixed oop i’ all manners o’ blackguardly street-rows, an’ killin’ rats, an’ fightin’ like divils.

T’ Colonel’s Laady says: – ‘Well, Learoyd, I doan’t agree wi’ you, but you’re right in a way o’ speeakin’, an’ I should like yo’ to tek Rip out a-walkin’ wi’ you sometimes; but yo’ maun’t let him fight, nor chase cats, nor do nowt ‘orrid’: an them was her very wods.

Soa Rip an’ me goes out a-walkin’ o’ evenin’s, he bein’ a dog as did credit tiv a man, an’ I catches a lot o’ rats an we hed a bit of a match on in an awd dry swimmin’-bath at back o’t’ cantonments, an’ it was none so long afore he was as bright as a button again. He hed a way o’ flyin’ at them big yaller pariah dogs as if he was a harrow offan a bow, an’ though his weight were nowt, he tuk ‘em so suddint-like they rolled over like skittles in a halley, an’ when they coot he stretched after ‘em as if he were rabbit-runnin’. Saame with cats when he cud get t’ cat agaate o’ runnin’.

One evenin’, him an’ me was trespassin’ ovver a compound wall after one of them mongooses ‘at he’d started, an’ we was busy grubbin’ round a prickle-bush, an’ when we looks up there was Mrs. DeSussa wi’ a parasel ovver her shoulder, a-watchin’ us. ‘Oh my!’ she sings out; ‘there’s that lovelee dog! Would he let me stroke him, Mister Soldier?’

‘Ay, he would, mum,’ sez I, ‘for he’s fond o’ laady’s coompany. Coom here, Rip, an’ speeak to this kind laady.’ An’Rip, seein’ ‘at t’mongoose hed getten clean awaay, cooms up like t’ gentleman he was, nivver a hauporth shy or okkord.

‘Oh, you beautiful – you prettee dog!’ she says, clippin’ an’ chantin’ her speech in a way them sooart has o’ their awn; ‘I would like a dog like you. You are so verree lovelee – so awfullee prettee,’ an’ all thot sort o’ talk, ‘at a dog o’ sense mebbe thinks nowt on, tho’ he bides it by reason o’ his breedin’.

An’ then I meks him joomp ovver my swagger-cane, an’ shek hands, an’ beg, an’ lie dead, an’ a lot o’ them tricks as laadies teeaches dogs, though I doan’t haud with it mysen, for it’s makin’ a fool o’ a good dog to do such like.

An’ at lung length it cooms out ‘at she’d been thrawin’ sheep’s eyes, as t’ sayin’ is, at Rip for many a day. Yo’ see, her childer was grown up, an’ she’d nowt mich to do, an’ were allus fond of a dog. Soa she axes me if I’d tek somethin’ to dhrink. An’ we goes into t’ drawn-room wheer her husband was a-settin’. They meks a gurt fuss ower t’ dog an’ I has a bottle o’ aale, an’ he gave me a handful o’ cigars.

Soa I coomed away, but t’ awd lass sings out – ‘Oh, Mister Soldier, please coom again and bring that prettee dog.’

I didn’t let on to t’ Colonel’s Laady about Mrs. DeSussa, and Rip, he says nowt nawther; an’ I gooes again, an’ ivry time there was a good dhrink an’ a handful o’ good smooaks. An’ I telled t’ awd lass a heeap more about Rip than I’d ever heeared; how he tuk t’ fost prize at Lunnon dog-show and cost thotty-three pounds fower shillin’ from t’ man as bred him; ‘at his own brother was t’ propputty o’ t’ Prince o’ Wailes, an’ ‘at he had a pedigree as long as a Dook’s. An’ she lapped it all oop an’ were niver tired o’ admirin’ him. But when t’ awed lass took to givin’ me money an’ I seed ‘at she were gettin’ fair fond about t’ dog, I began to suspicion summat. Onny body may give a soldier t’ price of a pint in a friendly way an’ theer’s no ‘arm done, but when it cooms to five rupees slipt into your hand, sly like, why, it’s what t’ ‘lectioneerin’ fellows calls bribery an’ corruption. Specially when Mrs. DeSussa threwed hints how t’ cold weather would soon be ower an’ she was goin’ to Munsooree Pahar an’ we was goin’ to Rawalpindi, an’ she would niver see Rip any more onless somebody she knowed on would be kind tiv her.

Soa I tells Mulvaney an’ Ortheris all t’ taale thro’, beginnin’ to end.

‘’Tis larceny that wicked ould laady manes,’ says t’ Irishman, ‘’tis felony she is sejuicin’ ye into, my frind Learoyd, but I’ll purtect your innocince. I’ll save ye from the wicked wiles av that wealthy ould woman, an’ I’ll go wid ye this evenin’ and spake to her the wurrds av truth an’ honesty. But Jock,’ says he, waggin’ his heead, ‘’twas not like ye to kape all that good dhrink an’ thim fine cigars to yerself, while Orth’ris here an’ me have been prowlin’ round wid throats as dry as lime-kilns, and nothin’ to smoke but Canteen plug. ‘Twas a dhirty thrick to play on a comrade, for why should you, Learoyd, be balancin’ yourself on the butt av a satin chair, as if Terence Mulvaney was not the aquil av anybody who thrades in jute!’

‘Let alone me sticks in Orth’ris, ‘but that’s like life. Them wot’s really fitted to decorate society get no show while a blunderin’ Yorkshireman like you – ’

‘Nay,’ says I, ‘it’s none o’ t’ blunderin’ Yorkshireman she wants; it’s Rip. He’s the gentleman this journey.’

Soa t’ next day, Mulvaney an’ Rip an’ me goes to Mrs. DeSussa’s, an’ t’ Irishman bein’ a strainger she wor a bit shy at fost. But you’ve heeard Mulvaney talk, an’ yo’ may believe as he fairly bewitched t’ awd lass wal she let out ‘at she wanted to tek Rip away wi’ her to Munsooree Pahar. Then Mulvaney changes his tune an’ axes her solemn-like if she’d thought o’ t’ consequences o’ gettin’ two poor but honest soldiers sent t’ Andamning Islands. Mrs. DeSussa began to cry, so Mulvaney turns round oppen t’ other tack and smooths her down, allowin’ ‘at Rip ud be a vast better off in t’ Hills than down i’ Bengal, and ‘twas a pity he shouldn’t go wheer he was so well beliked. And soa he went on, backin’ an’ fillin’ an’ workin’ up t’ awd lass wal she felt as if her life warn’t worth nowt if she didn’t hev t’ dog.

Then all of a suddint he says: – ‘But ye shall have him, marm, for I’ve a feelin’ heart, not like this could-blooded Yorkshireman; but ‘twill cost ye not a penny less than three hundher rupees.’

‘Don’t yo’ believe him, mum,’ says I; ‘t’ Colonel’s Laady wouldn’t tek five hundred for him.’

‘Who said she would?’ says Mulvaney; ‘it’s not buyin’ him I mane, but for the sake o’ this kind, good laady, I’ll do what I never dreamt to do in my life. I’ll stale him!’

‘Don’t say steal,’ says Mrs. DeSussa; ‘he shall have the happiest home. Dogs often get lost, you know, and then they stray, an’ he likes me and I like him as I niver liked a dog yet, an’ I must hev him. If I got him at t’ last minute I could carry him off to Munsooree Pahar and nobody would niver knaw.’

Now an’ again Mulvaney looked acrost at me, an’ though I could mak nowt o’ what he was after, I concluded to take his leead.

‘Well, mum,’ I says, ‘I never thowt to coom down to dog-steealin’, but if my comrade sees how it could be done to oblige a laady like yo’sen, I’m nut t’ man to hod back, tho’ it’s a bad business I’m thinkin’, an’ three hundred rupees is a poor set-off again t’ chance of them Damning Islands as Mulvaney talks on.’

‘I’ll mek it three fifty,’ says Mrs. DeSussa; ‘only let me hev t’dog!’

So we let her persuade us, an’ she teks Rip’s measure theer an’ then, an’ sent to Hamilton’s to order a silver collar again t’ time when he was to be her awn, which was to be t’ day she set off for Munsooree Pahar.

‘Sitha, Mulvaney,’ says I, when we was outside, ‘you’re niver goin’ to let her hev Rip!’

‘An’ would ye disappoint a poor old woman?’ says he; ‘she shall have a Rip.’

‘An’ wheer’s he to come through?’ says I.

‘Learoyd, my man,’ he sings out, ‘you’re a pretty man av your inches an’ a good comrade, but your head is made av duff. Isn’t our friend Orth’ris a Taxidermist, an’ a rale artist wid his nimble white fingers? An’ what’s a Taxidermist but a man who can thrate shkins? Do ye mind the white dog that belongs to the Canteen Sargint, bad cess to him – he that’s lost half his time an’ snarlin’ the rest? He shall be lost for good now; an’ do ye mind that he’s the very spit in shape an’ size av the Colonel’s, barrin’ that his tail is an inch too long, an’ he has none av the colour that divarsifies the rale Rip, an’ his timper is that av his masther an’ worse. But fwhat is an inch on a dog’s tail? An’ fwhat to a professional like Orth’ris is a few ringstraked shpots av black, brown, an’ white? Nothin’ at all, at all.’

Then we meets Orth’ris, an’ that little man, bein’ sharp as a needle, seed his way through t’ business in a minute. An’ he went to work a-practisin’ ‘air-dyes the very next day, beginnin’ on some white rabbits he had, an’ then he drored all Rip’s markin’s on t’ back of a white Commissariat bullock, so as to get his ‘and in an’ be sure of his colours; shadin’ off brown into black as nateral as life. If Rip hed a fault it was too mich markin’, but it was straingely reg’lar an’ Orth’ris settled himself to make a fost-rate job on it when he got haud o’ t’ Canteen Sargint’s dog. Theer niver was sich a dog as thot for bad timper, an’ it did nut get no better when his tail hed to be fettled an inch an’ a half shorter. But they may talk o’ theer Royal Academies as they like. I niver seed a bit o’ animal paintin’ to beat t’ copy as Orth’ris made of Rip’s marks, wal t’ picter itself was snarlin’ all t’ time an’ tryin’ to get at Rip standin’ theer to be copied as good as goold.

Orth’ris allus hed as mich conceit on himsen as would lift a balloon, an’ he wor so pleeased wi’ his sham Rip he wor for tekking him to Mrs. DeSussa before she went away. But Mulvaney an’ me stopped thot, knowin’ Orth’ris’s work, though niver so cliver, was nobut skin-deep.

An’ at last Mrs. DeSussa fixed t’ day for startin’ to Munsooree Pahar. We was to tek Rip to t’ stayshun i’ a basket an’ hand him ovver just when they was ready to start, an’ then she’d give us t’ brass – as was agreed upon.

An’ my wod! It were high time she were off, for them ‘air-dyes upon t’ cur’s back took a vast of paintin’ to keep t’ reet culler, tho’ Orth’ris spent a matter o’ seven rupees six annas i’ t’ best drooggist shops i’ Calcutta.

An’ t’ Canteen Sargint was lookin’ for ‘is dog everywheer; an’, wi’ bein’ tied up, t’ beast’s timper got waur nor ever.

It wor i’ t’ evenin’ when t’ train started thro’ Howrah, an’ we ‘elped Mrs. DeSussa wi’ about sixty boxes, an’ then we gave her t’ basket. Orth’ris, for pride av his work, axed us to let him coom along wi’ us, an’ he couldn’t help liftin’ t’ lid an’ showin’ t’ cur as he lay coiled oop.

‘Oh!’ says t’ awd lass; ‘the beautee! How sweet he looks!’ An’ just then t’ beauty snarled an’ showed his teeth, so Mulvaney shuts down t’ lid and says: ‘Ye’ll be careful, marm, whin ye tek him out. He’s disaccustomed to travelling by t’ railway, an’ he’ll be sure to want his rale mistress an’ his friend Learoyd, so ye’ll make allowance for his feelings at fost.’

She would do all thot an’ more for the dear, good Rip, an’ she would nut oppen t’ basket till they were miles away, for fear anybody should recognise him, an’ we were real good and kind soldier-men, we were, an’ she bonds me a bundle o’ notes, an’ then cooms up a few of her relations an’ friends to say good-by – not more than seventy-five there wasn’t – an’ we cuts away.

What coom to t’ three hundred and fifty rupees? Thot’s what I can scarcelins tell yo’, but we melted it – we melted it. It was share an’ share alike, for Mulvaney said: ‘If Learoyd got hold of Mrs. DeSussa first, sure ‘twas I that renumbered the Sargint’s dog just in the nick av time, an’ Orth’ris was the artist av janius that made a work av art out av that ugly piece av ill-nature. Yet, by way av a thank-offerin’ that I was not led into felony by that wicked ould woman, I’ll send a thrifle to Father Victor for the poor people he’s always beggin’ for.’

But me an’ Orth’ris, he bein’ Cockney an’ I bein’ pretty far north, did nut see it i’ t’ saame way. We’d getten t’ brass, an’ we meaned to keep it. An’ soa we did – for a short time.

Noa, noa, we niver heered a wod more o’ t’ awd lass. Our rig’mint went to Pindi, an’ t’ Canteen Sargint he got himself another tyke insteead o’ t’ one ‘at got lost so reg’lar, an’ was lost for good at last.

THE BIG DRUNK DRAF’

An awful thing has happened! My friend, Private Mulvaney, who went home in the Serapis, time-expired, not very long ago, has come back to India as a civilian! It was all Dinah Shadd’s fault. She could not stand the poky little lodgings, and she missed her servant Abdullah more than words could tell. The fact was that the Mulvaneys had been out here too long, and had lost touch of England.

Mulvaney knew a contractor on one of the new Central India lines, and wrote to him for some sort of work. The contractor said that if Mulvaney could pay the passage he would give him command of a gang of coolies for old sake’s sake. The pay was eighty-five rupees a month, and Dinah Shadd said that if Terence did not accept she would make his life a ‘basted purgathory.’ Therefore the Mulvaneys came out as ‘civilians,’ which was a great and terrible fall; though Mulvaney tried to disguise it, by saying that he was ‘Ker’nel on the railway line, an’ a consequinshal man.’

He wrote me an invitation, on a tool-indent form, to visit him; and I came down to the funny little ‘construction’ bungalow at the side of the line. Dinah Shadd had planted peas about and about, and nature had spread all manner of green stuff round the place. There was no change in Mulvaney except the change of clothing, which was deplorable, but could not be helped. He was standing upon his trolly, haranguing a gangman, and his shoulders were as well drilled, and his big, thick chin was as clean-shaven as ever.

‘I’m a civilian now,’ said Mulvaney. ‘Cud you tell that I was iver a martial man? Don’t answer, Sorr, av you’re strainin’ betune a compliment an’ a lie. There’s no houldin’ Dinah Shadd now she’s got a house av her own. Go inside, an’ dhrink tay out av chiny in the drrrrawin’-room, an’ thin we’ll dhrink like Christians undher the tree here. Scutt, ye naygur-folk! There’s a Sahib come to call on me, an’ that’s more than he’ll iver do for you onless you run! Get out, an’ go on pilin’ up the earth, quick, till sundown.’

When we three were comfortably settled under the big sisham in front of the bungalow, and the first rush of questions and answers about Privates Ortheris and Learoyd and old times and places had died away, Mulvaney said, reflectively – ‘Glory be there’s no p’rade to-morrow, an’ no bun-headed Corp’ril-bhoy to give you his lip. An’ yit I don’t know. ‘Tis harrd to be something ye niver were an’ niver meant to be, an’ all the ould days shut up along wid your papers. Eyah! I’m growin’ rusty, an’ ‘tis the will av God that a man mustn’t serve his Quane for time an’ all.’

He helped himself to a fresh peg, and sighed furiously.

‘Let your beard grow, Mulvaney,’ said I, ‘and then you won’t be troubled with those notions. You’ll be a real civilian.’

Dinah Shadd had told me in the drawing-room of her desire to coax Mulvaney into letting his beard grow. ‘Twas so civilian-like,’ said poor Dinah, who hated her husband’s hankering for his old life.

‘Dinah Shadd, you’re a dishgrace to an honust, clanescraped man!’ said Mulvaney, without replying to me. ‘Grow a beard on your own chin, darlint, and lave my razors alone. They’re all that stand betune me and dis-ris-pect-ability. Av I didn’t shave, I wud be torminted wid an outrajis thurrst; for there’s nothin’ so dhryin’ to the throat as a big billy-goat beard waggin’ undher the chin. Ye wudn’t have me dhrink ALWAYS, Dinah Shadd? By the same token, you’re kapin’ me crool dhry now. Let me look at that whiskey.’

The whiskey was lent and returned, but Dinah Shadd, who had been just as eager as her husband in asking after old friends, rent me with —

‘I take shame for you, Sorr, coming down here – though the Saints know you’re as welkim as the daylight whin you DO come – an’ upsettin’ Terence’s head wid your nonsense about – about fwhat’s much better forgotten. He bein’ a civilian now, an’ you niver was aught else. Can you not let the Arrmy rest? ‘Tis not good for Terence.’

I took refuge by Mulvaney, for Dinah Shadd has a temper of her own.

‘Let be – let be,’ said Mulvaney. ‘Tis only wanst in a way I can talk about the ould days.’ Then to me: – ‘Ye say Dhrumshticks is well, an’ his lady tu? I niver knew how I liked the gray garron till I was shut av him an’ Asia.’ – ‘Dhrumshticks’ was the nickname of the Colonel commanding Mulvaney’s old regiment. – ‘Will you be seein’ him again? You will. Thin tell him’ – Mulvaney’s eyes began to twinkle – ‘tell him wid Privit – ’

‘MISTER, Terence,’ interrupted Dinah Shadd.

‘Now the Divil an’ all his angils an’ the Firmament av Hiven fly away wid the “Mister,” an’ the sin av making me swear be on your confession, Dinah Shadd! Privit, I tell ye. Wid Privit Mulvaney’s best obedience, that but for me the last time-expired wud be still pullin’ hair on their way to the sea.’

He threw himself back in the chair, chuckled, and was silent.

‘Mrs. Mulvaney,’ I said, ‘please take up the whiskey, and don’t let him have it until he has told the story.’

Dinah Shadd dexterously whipped the bottle away, saying at the same time, ‘Tis nothing to be proud av,’ and thus captured by the enemy, Mulvaney spake: —

‘Twas on Chuseday week. I was behaderin’ round wid the gangs on the ‘bankmint – I’ve taught the hoppers how to kape step an’ stop screechin’ – whin a head-gangman comes up to me, wid two inches av shirt-tail hanging round his neck an’ a disthressful light in his oi. “Sahib,” sez he, “there’s a rig’mint an’ a half av soldiers up at the junction, knockin’ red cinders out av ivrything an’ ivrybody! They thried to hang me in my cloth,” he sez, “an’ there will be murder an’ ruin an’ rape in the place before nightfall! They say they’re comin’ down here to wake us up. What will we do wid our women-folk?”

‘“Fetch my throlly!” sez I; “my heart’s sick in my ribs for a wink at anything wid the Quane’s uniform on ut. Fetch my throlly, an’ six av the jildiest men, and run me up in shtyle.’”

‘He tuk his best coat,’ said Dinah Shadd reproachfully.

‘’Twas to do honour to the Widdy. I cud ha’ done no less, Dinah Shadd. You and your digresshins interfere wid the coorse av the narrative. Have you iver considhered fwhat I wud look like wid me head shaved as well as my chin? You bear that in your mind, Dinah darlin’.

‘I was throllied up six miles, all to get a shquint at that draf’. I knew ‘twas a spring draf’ goin’ home, for there’s no rig’mint hereabouts, more’s the pity.’

‘Praise the Virgin!’ murmured Dinah Shadd. But Mulvaney did not hear.

‘Whin I was about three-quarters av a mile off the rest-camp, powtherin’ along fit to burrst, I heard the noise av the men an’, on my sowl, Sorr, I cud catch the voice av Peg Barney bellowin’ like a bison wid the belly-ache. You remimber Peg Barney that was in D Comp’ny – a red, hairy scraun, wid a scar on his jaw? Peg Barney that cleared out the Blue Lights’ Jubilee meeting wid the cook-room mop last year?

‘Thin I knew ut was a draf of the ould rig’mint, an’ I was conshumed wid sorrow for the bhoy that was in charge. We was harrd scrapin’s at any time. Did I iver tell you how Horker Kelley went into clink nakid as Phoebus Apollonius, wid the shirts av the Corp’ril an’ file undher his arrum? An’ he was a moild man! But I’m digreshin’. ‘Tis a shame both to the rig’mints and the Arrmy sendin’ down little orf’cer bhoys wid a draf av strong men mad wid liquor an’ the chanst av gettin’ shut av India, an’ niver a punishment that’s fit to be given right down an’ away from cantonmints to the dock! ‘Tis this nonsince. Whin I am servin’ my time, I’m undher the Articles av War, an’ can be whipped on the peg for thim. But whin I’ve served my time, I’m a Reserve man, an’ the Articles av War haven’t any hould on me. An orf’cer can’t do anythin’ to a time-expired savin’ confinin’ him to barricks. ‘Tis a wise rig’lation bekaze a time-expired does not have any barricks; bein’ on the move all the time. ‘Tis a Solomon av a rig’lation, is that. I wud like to be inthroduced to the man that made ut. ‘Tis easier to get colts from a Kibbereen horse-fair into Galway than to take a bad draf’ over ten miles av country. Consiquintly that rig’lation – for fear that the men wud be hurt by the little orf’cer bhoy. No matther. The nearer my throlly came to the rest-camp, the woilder was the shine, an’ the louder was the voice av Peg Barney. “‘Tis good I am here,” thinks I to myself, “for Peg alone is employmint for two or three.” He bein’, I well knew, as copped as a dhrover.