stood high from the straw
in which most of the men had buried themselves, leaving nothing but
their faces, fringed with the rims of Balaclava helmets, exposed to
view. The night was bitterly cold, outside where the sky stood high
splashed with countless stars and where the earth gripped tight on (p. 046)
itself, the frost fiend was busy; in the barn, with its medley of men,
roosting hens and prowling rats all was cosy and warm. Feelan cleared
his throat and commenced the song, his voice strong and clear filled
the barn:--

"Arrah! tell me Shan O'Farrel; tell me why you hurry so?"
"Hush, my bouchal, hush and listen," and his cheeks were all aglow--
"I've got orders from the Captain to get ready quick and soon
For the pikes must be together at the risin' of the moon,
At the risin' of the moon!
At the risin' of the moon!
And the pikes must be together at the risin' of the moon!"

"That's some song," said the corporal. "It has got guts in it. I'm
sick of these ragtime rotters!"

"The old songs are always the best ones," said Feelan, clearing his
throat preparatory to commencing a second verse.

"What about _Uncle Joe_?" asked Goliath, and was off with a regimental
favourite.

When Uncle Joe plays a rag upon his old banjo--
("Oh!" the occupants of the barn yelled.)
Ev'rybody starts a swayin' to and fro--
("Ha!" exclaimed the barn.)
Mummy waddles all around the cabin floor!--
("What!" we chorused.)
Crying, "Uncle Joe, give us more, give us more!"

"Give us no more of that muck!" exclaimed Feelan, burrowing into (p. 047)
the straw, no doubt a little annoyed at being interrupted in his song.
"Damn ragtime!"

"There's ginger in it!" said Goliath. "Your old song is as flat as
French beer!"

"Some decent music is what you want," said Bill Sykes, and forthwith
began strumming an invisible banjo and humming _Way down upon the
Swanee Ribber_.

The candle, the only one in our possession, burned closer to the
cheese sconce, a daring rat slipped into the light, stopped still for
a moment on top of a sheaf of straw, then scampered off again, shadows
danced on the roof, over the joists where the hens were roosting, an
unsheathed sword glittered brightly as the light caught it, and Feelan
lifted the weapon and glanced at it.

"Burnished like a lady's nail," he muttered.

"Thumb nail?" interrogated Goliath.

"Ragnail, p'raps," said the Cockney.

"I wo