ris, 'an' it
was gentleman's work. Might 'a' done it in a white 'andkerchief an'
pink silk stockin's, that part. Hi was on in that piece.'

'You could ha' heard the Tyrone yellin' a mile away,' said Mulvaney,
'an' 'twas all their Sargints cud do to get thim off. They was
mad--mad--mad! Crook sits down in the quiet that fell when we had gone
down the valley, an' covers his face wid his hands. Prisintly we all
came back again accordin' to our natures and disposishins, for they,
mark you, show through the hide av a man in that hour.

'"Bhoys! bhoys!" sez Crook to himself. "I misdoubt we could ha'
engaged at long range an' saved betther men than me." He looked at our
dead an' said no more.

'"Captain dear," sez a man av the Tyrone, comin' up wid his mouth
bigger than iver his mother kissed ut, spittin' blood like a whale;
"Captain dear," sez he, "if wan or two in the shtalls have been
discommoded, the gallery have enjoyed the performinces av a Roshus."

'Thin I knew that man for the Dublin dock-rat he was--wan av the bhoys
that made the lessee av Silver's Theatre gray before his time wid
tearin' out the bowils av the benches an' t'rowin' thim into the pit.
So I passed the wurrud that I knew when I was in the Tyrone an' we lay
in Dublin. "I don't know who 'twas," I whispers, "an' I don't care,
but anyways I'll knock the face av you, Tim Kelly."

'"Eyah!" sez the man, "was you there too? We'll call ut Silver's
Theatre." Half the Tyrone, knowin' the ould place, tuk ut up: so we
called ut Silver's Theatre.

'The little orf'cer bhoy av the Tyrone was thremblin' an' cryin'. He
had no heart for the Coort-Martials that he talked so big upon. "Ye'll
do well later," sez Crook very quiet, "for not bein' allowed to kill
yourself for amusemint."

'"I'm a dishgraced man!" sez the little orf'cer bhoy.

'"Put me undher arrest, Sorr, if you will, but, by my sowl, I'd do ut
again sooner than face your mother wid you dead," sez the Sargint that
had sat on his head, standin' to attention an' salutin'. But the young
wan only cried as tho' his little heart was breakin'.

'Thin another man av the Tyrone came up, wid the fog av fightin' on
him.'

'The what, Mulvaney?'

'Fog av fightin'. You know, Sorr, that, like makin' love, ut takes
each man diff'rint. Now I can't help bein' powerful sick whin I'm in
action. Orth'ris, here, niver stops swearin' from ind to ind, an' the
only time that Learoyd opins his mouth to sing is whin he is me