ma? Ould Silver wud never pay actor, man
or woman, their just dues, an' by consequence his comp'nies was
collapsible at the last minut. Then the bhoys would clamor to take a
part, an' oft as not ould Silver made them pay for the fun. Faith,
I've seen Hamlut played wid a new black eye, an' the queen as full as a
cornucopia. I remember wanst Hogin, that 'listed in the Black Tyrone
an' was shot in South Africa, he sejuced ould Silver into givin' him
Hamlut's part instid av me, that had a fine fancy for rhetoric in those
days. Av course I wint into the gallery an' began to fill the pit wid
other people's hats, an' I passed the time av day to Hogin walkin'
through Denmark like a hamstrung mule wid a pall on his back.
'Hamlut,' sez I, 'there's a hole in your heel. Pull up your
shtockin's, Hamlut,' sez I. 'Hamlut, Hamlut, for the love av decincy,
dhrop that skull, an' pull up your shtockin's.' The whole house began
to tell him that. He stopped his soliloquishms mid between. 'My
shtockin's may be comin' down, or they may not,' sez he, screwin' his
eye into the gallery, for well he knew who I was; 'but afther the
performince is over, me an' the Ghost'll trample the guts out av you,
Terence, wid your ass's bray.' An' that's how I come to know about
Hamlut. Eyah! Those days, those days! Did you iver have onendin'
devilmint, an' nothin' to pay for it in your life, sorr?"

"Never without having to pay," I said.

"That's thrue. 'Tis mane, whin you considher on ut; but ut's the same
wid horse or fut. A headache if you dhrink, an' a bellyache if you eat
too much, an' a heartache to kape all down. Faith, the beast only gets
the colic, an' he's the lucky man."

He dropped his head and stared into the fire, fingering his mustache
the while. From the far side of the bivouac the voice of Corbet-Nolan,
senior subaltern of B Company, uplifted itself in an ancient and
much-appreciated song of sentiment, the men moaning melodiously behind
him:

"The north wind blew coldly, she dropped from that hour,
My own little Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen,
Kathleen, my Kathleen, Kathleen O'Moore!"

with forty-five o's in the last word. Even at that distance you might
have cut the soft South Irish accent with a shovel.

"For all we take we must pay; but the price is cruel high," murmured
Mulvaney when the chorus had ceased.

"What's the trouble?" I said gently, for I knew that he was a man of an
inextinguishable sorrow