beer. I feel that way
mesilf whin my liver gets rusty.'

[Illustration: Ortheris heaved a big sigh.--P. 192.]

Ortheris went on slowly, not heeding the interruption:--

'I'm a Tommy--a bloomin', eight-anna, dog-stealin' Tommy, with a
number instead of a decent name. Wot's the good o' me? If I 'ad a
stayed at 'Ome, I might a married that gal and a kep' a little shorp
in the 'Ammersmith 'Igh.--"S. Orth'ris, Prac-ti-cal Taxi-der-mist."
With a stuff' fox, like they 'as in the Haylesbury Dairies, in the
winder, an' a little case of blue and yaller glass-heyes, an' a little
wife to call "shorp!" "shorp!" when the door-bell rung. As it _his_,
I'm on'y a Tommy--a Bloomin' Gawd-forsaken Beer-swillin' Tommy. "Rest
on your harms--_'versed_. Stan' at--_hease_; _'shun_. 'Verse--_harms_.
Right an' lef'--_tarrn_. Slow--_march_. 'Alt--_front_. Rest on your
harms--_'versed_. With blank-cartridge--_load_." An' that's the end o'
me.' He was quoting fragments from Funeral Parties' Orders.

'Stop ut!' shouted Mulvaney. 'Whin you've fired into nothin' as often
as me, over a better man than yoursilf, you will not make a mock av
thim orders. 'Tis worse than whistlin' the _Dead March_ in barricks.
An' you full as a tick, an' the sun cool, an' all an' all! I take
shame for you. You're no better than a Pagin--you an' your
firin'-parties an' your glass-eyes. Won't _you_ stop ut, Sorr?'

What could I do? Could I tell Ortheris anything that he did not know
of the pleasures of his life? I was not a Chaplain nor a Subaltern,
and Ortheris had a right to speak as he thought fit.

'Let him run, Mulvaney,' I said. 'It's the beer.'

'No! 'Tisn't the beer,' said Mulvaney. 'I know fwhat's comin'. He's
tuk this way now an' agin, an' it's bad--it's bad--for I'm fond av the
bhoy.'

Indeed, Mulvaney seemed needlessly anxious; but I knew that he looked
after Ortheris in a fatherly way.

'Let me talk, let me talk,' said Ortheris dreamily. 'D'you stop your
parrit screamin' of a 'ot day when the cage is a-cookin' 'is pore
little pink toes orf, Mulvaney?'

'Pink toes! D'ye mane to say you've pink toes undher your bullswools,
ye blandanderin','--Mulvaney gathered himself together for a terrific
denunciation--'school-misthress! Pink toes! How much Bass wid the
label did that ravin' child dhrink?'

''Tain't Bass,' said Ortheris. 'It's a bitterer beer nor that. It's
'ome-sickness!'

'Hark to him! An' he goin' Home in the _Sherapis_ in the inside av
fo