The Luck of the Mounted | Page 4

in Hell, so long as he can have his bloomin' old blackguard of a parrot along with him. If he can't there will be a pretty fuss."
"Bear up, Hardy!" comforted George. "When you've got that 'quiff' of yours all fussed up, and those new 'square-pushin'' dress-pants on you're some 'hot dog.' . . . Now, if I thought you could 'talk pretty' and behave yourself I'd--"
The old soldier grinned diabolically. "Sorjint?" he broke in mincingly "c'n I fall out an' tork t' me sister?--garn, Reddy! wipe orf yer chin! . . . though if I did 'appen t' 'ave a sister she might s'y th' sime fing abaht me, now, as she might s'y abaht you--to a lydy-fren' o' 'er's, p'raps. . . ."
"Say what?" demanded George incautiously.
Hardy chuckled again, "'Ere comes one o' them Mounted Pleecemen, me dear,--orl comb an' spurs,--mark time in front there. . . !" And he emitted an imitation of a barnyard cackle.
McCullough shot a glance at Redmond's face. "Can th' grief" he remarked unsympathetically, "you're fly enough usually . . . but you fairly asked for it that time."
Hardy spat into a cuspidor with long-range accuracy. He beamed with cheerful malevolence awhile upon his tormentors; then, uplifting a cracked falsetto in an unmusical wail, to the tune of "London Bridge is Falling Down," assured them that--
"_Old soweljers never die, never die, never die, Old soweljers never--_"
With infinite mockery Redmond's boyish voice struck in--
"_Young soldiers wish they would, wish they--_"
"'Ere!" remonstrated Hardy darkly, "chack it, Reddy! . . . You know wot 'appens t' them as starts in, a-guyin' old soweljers?--eh?--Well, I tell yer now!--worse'n wot 'appened t' them fresh kids in th' Bible wot mocked th' old blowke abaht 'is bald 'ead."
"Isch ga bibble! I don't care!" bawled the abandoned George; "can't be much worse than doing 'straight duty' round Barracks, here!--same thing, day in, day out--go and look at the 'duty detail' board--Regimental Number--Constable Redmond, 'prisoner's escort'--punching gangs of prisoners around all day long, on little rotten jobs about Barracks--and 'night guard' catching you every third night and--"
"Oyez! oyez! oyez! you good men of this--"
"Oh, yes! you can come the funny man all right, Mac--you've got a 'staff' job. Straight duty don't affect you. Why don't they shove me out on detachment again, and give me another chance to do real police work? . . . I tell you I'm fed up--properly. . . . I wish I was out of the blooming Force--I'm not 'wedded' to it, like you."
"'Ear, 'ear!" chimed in Hardy, with a sort of miserable heartiness. McSporran's contribution was merely a dour Scotch grin. In the moment's silence that followed a tremendous bawling squall of wind rocked the building to its very foundations. The back-draught of it sucked open the door, and, borne upon its wings, the roaring, full-chorused burst of a popular barrack-room chantey floated up the stairs from the canteen below--
"_Old King Cole was a merry old soul, And a merry old soul was he-- He called for his pipe, and he called for his glass, And he called for his old M.P._"
Outside the blizzard still moaned and howled; every now and then, between lulls, screeching gusts of sleet beat upon the windows. The parrot, clinging upside down to the roof of its cage, winked rapidly with Sphinx-like eyes and inclined its head sideways in an intent listening attitude.
"Eyah! but th' Force's a bloomin' good home to some of you, all th' same," growled McCullough. "Listen to that 'norther'? . . . How'd you like to be chucked out into th' cold, cold world right now?--You, Hardy! that's never done nothin' but 'soldier' all your life--you, Reddy! with your 'collidge edukashun'?"
George, unmoved, listened respectfully awhile, lying on his stomach with his chin cupped in his hands. "Must have been a great bunch of fellows when you first took on the Force, Dave?" he queried presently.
From sheer force of habit the old policeman glanced at his interlocutor suspiciously. But that young gentleman's face appearing open and serene, merely expressing naive interest, he grunted an affirmative "Uh-huh!" and backed his conviction with a cheerful oath.
"Ah, they sure was. But where are they all now?" he rambled on in garrulous reminiscence, "some of 'em rich--some of 'em broke--an' many of 'em back on th' old Force again, an' glad to get their rations. There was some that talked like you, Mister Bloomin' Reddy!--fed up, an' goin' to quit--an' did quit--for a time. There was Corky Jones, I mind. Him that used to blow 'bout th' wonderful jobs he'd got th' pick of when he was 'time-ex.' All he got was 'reeve' of some little shi-poke burg down south. Hooshomin its real name, but they mostly call it Hootch thereabouts. A rotten little dump of 'bout fifty inhabitants. They're drunk half