o the Oirishman I was expinded an' forlorn in my
inside. 'Tis a way I have, savin' your presince, Sorr, in action. "Let
me out, bhoys," sez I, backin' in among thim. "I'm goin' to be
onwell!" Faith they gave me room at the wurrd, though they would not
ha' given room for all Hell wid the chill off. When I got clear, I
was, savin' your presince, Sorr, outragis sick bekaze I had dhrunk
heavy that day.

'Well an' far out av harm was a Sargint av the Tyrone sittin' on the
little orf'cer bhoy who had stopped Crook from rowlin' the rocks. Oh,
he was a beautiful bhoy, an' the long black curses was sliding out av
his innocint mouth like morning-jew from a rose!

'"Fwhat have you got there?" sez I to the Sargint.

'"Wan av Her Majesty's bantams wid his spurs up," sez he. "He's goin'
to Coort-Martial me."

'"Let me go!" sez the little orf'cer bhoy. "Let me go and command my
men!" manin' thereby the Black Tyrone which was beyond any
command--ay, even av they had made the Divil a Field-Orf'cer.

'"His father howlds my mother's cow-feed in Clonmel," sez the man that
was sittin' on him. "Will I go back to _his_ mother an' tell her that
I've let him throw himself away? Lie still, ye little pinch av
dynamite, an' Coort-Martial me aftherwards."

'"Good," sez I; "'tis the likes av him makes the likes av the
Commandher-in-Chief, but we must presarve thim. Fwhat d'you want to
do, Sorr?" sez I, very politeful.

'"Kill the beggars--kill the beggars!" he shqueaks, his big blue eyes
brimmin' wid tears.

'"An' how'll ye do that?" sez I. "You've shquibbed off your revolver
like a child wid a cracker; you can make no play wid that fine large
sword av yours; an' your hand's shakin' like an asp on a leaf. Lie
still and grow," sez I.

'"Get back to your comp'ny," sez he; "you're insolint!"

'"All in good time," sez I, "but I'll have a dhrink first."

'Just thin Crook comes up, blue an' white all over where he wasn't
red.

'"Wather!" sez he; "I'm dead wid drouth! Oh, but it's a gran' day!"

'He dhrank half a skinful, and the rest he tilts into his chest, an'
it fair hissed on the hairy hide av him. He sees the little orf'cer
bhoy undher the Sargint.

'"Fwhat's yonder?" sez he.

'"Mutiny, Sorr," sez the Sargint, an' the orf'cer bhoy begins pleadin'
pitiful to Crook to be let go, but divil a bit wud Crook budge.

'"Kape him there," he sez, "'tis no child's work this day. By the same
token," sez he, "I'll confishcate that iligant nic