een engaged in relating all its ghastly details
with great gusto. "Cleared me lance-point ten times that d'y," he
remarked laconically. "Flint was aour Orf'cer Commandin'--Old 'Doolally
Flint'--'ard old 'ranker' 'e wos. 'E'd worked us sumphin' crool that
week. Night marches an' wot not. I tell yer that man 'ad no 'eart for
men or 'orses. An' you tork ababt bein' reel reg'mental, Mac! . . . 'e
wos a reg'mental old soor if yer like! . . . Fit to drop we wos--wot wos
left o' us, an' th' bloody sun goin' down an' all. But no! 'e give us no
rest--burial fatigue right away. Free big trenches we buried aour pore
fellers in--I can see 'em now. . . ."

For some few seconds he ceased polishing his glossy, mahogany-shaded "Sam
Browne" belt, and, chin in hand, stared unseeingly straight in front of
him. His audience waited. "Arterwards!" he cleared his throat,
"arterwards--w'en we'd filled in 'e made us put th' trimmin's on--line
'em out 'ead an' foot wiv big bowlders. I mind I'd jes kern a-staggerin'
ap wiv a big stowne for th' 'ead o' Number Free trench, but Doolally kep
me a-markin time till 'e wos ready. 'Kem ap a bit, Private 'Ardy,' 'e
sez, 'kem ap a bit! you're aht o' yer dressin'!' 'e sez. 'Arry Wagstaff,
as wos in Number Two Squordron 'e pulls a bit o' chork aht of 'is pocket,
an' 'e marks on 'is bowlder in big, fat letters 'Lucky soors--in bed
ev'ry night'--but old Doolally 'appened to turn rahnd an' cop 'im at it.
Drum-'ead coort-martial 'Arry gort for that, an' drew ten d'ys Number One
Field Punishment. But that wos old Doolally all over . . . yer might s'y
'e 'adn't no sense o' 'umor, that man. Down country we moves next d'y,
for Peshawur, where th' reg'ment lay. We'd copped a thunderin' lot o'
prisoners--th' Mullah an' all."

"Wha' d'ye ca' a Mullah?" queried McSporran, with grave interest.

Hardy, carbine-barrel between knees--struggled with a "pull-through."
"Mullah? well, 'e's a sorter--sorter 'ead blowke," he mumbled lamely.

"Kind of High Priest?" ventured George.

The old soldier beamed upon him gratefully, "Ar, that's wot I meant. 'E
stunk that 'igh th' Colonel 'e sez--"

The storm doors banged below. "Redmond!--oh, Redmond!" The great,
booming, bass voice rang echoing up the stairway. Involuntarily they all
sprang to an attitude of alert attention. Rarely did Tom Belcher have to
speak twice around Barracks.

"There's the S.M.!" muttered George. Aloud he responded "Coming,
Sergeant