"I wasn't quite wise to what he was at," he answered.

"Let us go get ut!" said Sergeant Slavin grimly, marching to the spot, "I
will not have dhrink brought into th' detachment! . . . 'tis against
ordhers."

He bent down, straightened up, and turning to Redmond who had joined him
exhibited a bottle. He held it up to the light of the moon. It appeared
to be about half empty. Extracting the cork, he smelt.

"'Tis whiskey," he murmured simply--much as Mr. Pickwick said: "It is
punch." He made casual examination of the green and gold label.
"'Burke's Oirish,' begob! . . . eyah! a brave ould uniform but"--he
turned a moist eye on his subordinate--"a desp'ritly wounded souldier
that wears ut--betther out av pain. 'Tis an' ould sayin': 'Whin ye meet
th' divil du not turn tail but take um by th' harns.' . . . Bhoy! I
thrust the honest face av yeh--I have tuk tu ye since th' handy lad ye
showt yersilf with that team mix-up th' morn."

Redmond, mollified, grinned shiveringly. "I don't mind a snort,
Sergeant," he said, "it's d----d cold out here. Beer's more in my line
though. Salue!"

He took a swallow or two; the bottle changed hands.

"Eyah!" remarked Slavin sometime later--cuddling the bottle at the "port
arms." "'Tis put th' kibosh on many a good man in th' ould Force has
this same dhrink. Th' likes av Yorkey there"--he jerked his head at the
lighted window--"shud never touch ut--never touch ut! . . . Cannot
flirrt wid a bottle--'tis wedded they wud be tu ut. Now meself"--he
paused impressively--"I can take me dhrink like a ginthleman--can take
ut, or lave ut alone."

Absorptive demonstration followed. Came a long-drawn, smacking "Ah-hh!"
"A sore thrial tu me is that same man," he resumed, "wan more break on
his part, as ye have seen this night . . . an' I musht--I will take
shteps wid um."

"Why don't you transfer him back to the Post?" queried George,
wonderingly, mindful of how swiftly that disciplinary measure had
rewarded his own reckless conduct at the Gleichen detachment. "He's got
nothing on you, has he?"

"_Fwhat_?" . . . Slavin, turning like a flash, glared sharply at him out
of deep-set scowling eyes, "Fwhat?"

Tonelessly, George repeated his query,

Slavin's glare gradually faded. "Eyah!" he affirmed presently, "he
has! . . ." came a long pause--"but not as yu mane ut . . . oh! begorrah,
no!" His eyes glittered dangerously and his wide mouth wreathed into an
unholy grin, "'Tis a