'Not a word more, Sorr. Is ut excuses the old man wants? 'Tis not my
way, but he shall have thim. I'll tell him I was engaged in financial
operations connected wid a church,' and he flapped his way to
cantonments and the cells, singing lustily:--

'So they sent a corp'ril's file,
And they put me in the gyard-room
For conduck unbecomin' of a soldier.'

And when he was lost in the mist of the moonlight we could hear the
refrain:--

'Bang upon the big drum, bash upon the cymbals,
As we go marchin' along, boys, oh!
For although in this campaign
There's no whisky nor champagne,
We'll keep our spirits goin' with a song, boys!'

Therewith he surrendered himself to the joyful and almost weeping
guard, and was made much of by his fellows. But to the Colonel he said
that he had been smitten with sunstroke and had lain insensible on a
villager's cot for untold hours; and between laughter and good-will
the affair was smoothed over, so that he could, next day, teach the
new recruits how to 'Fear God, Honour the Queen, Shoot Straight, and
Keep Clean.'

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

THE TAKING OF LUNGTUNGPEN

So we loosed a bloomin' volley,
An' we made the beggars cut,
An' when our pouch was emptied out,
We used the bloomin' butt,
Ho! My!
Don't yer come anigh,
When Tommy is a playin' with the baynit an' the butt.

_Barrack Room Ballad._

My friend Private Mulvaney told me this, sitting on the parapet of the
road to Dagshai, when we were hunting butterflies together. He had
theories about the Army, and coloured clay pipes perfectly. He said
that the young soldier is the best to work with, 'on account av the
surpassing innocinse av the child.'

'Now, listen!' said Mulvaney, throwing himself full length on the wall
in the sun. 'I'm a born scutt av the barrick-room! The Army's mate an'
dhrink to me, bekaze I'm wan av the few that can't quit ut. I've put
in sivinteen years, an' the pipeclay's in the marrow av me. Av I cud
have kept out av wan big dhrink a month, I wud have been a Hon'ry
Lift'nint by this time--a nuisince to my betthers, a laughin'-shtock
to my equils, an' a curse to meself. Bein' fwhat I am, I'm Privit
Mulvaney, wid no good-conduc' pay an' a devourin' thirst. Always
barrin' me little frind Bobs Bahadur, I know as much about the Army as
most men.'

I said something here.

'Wolseley be shot! Be