The Luck of the Mounted | Page 2

a
facetious wrangling argument--their respective vocabularies, albeit
more or less ensanguined, exhibiting a fluent and masterly range of
quaint barrack-room idiom and invective.
Both were clad in brown duck "fatigue slacks," the rolled-up sleeves of
their "gray-back" shirts disclosing the fact that the sinewy forearms of
both men were decorated with gay and fanciful specimens of the tattoo
artist's genius. A third man, similarly habited, lay stretched out,
apparently sleeping on one of the cots that were arranged around the
room. Opening his eyes he greeted the newcomer with a lethargic "'Lo,
Redmond!"; then, turning over on his side, he relapsed once more into
the arms of Morpheus--his nasal organ proclaiming that fact beyond
doubt.
The orderly aspect of the room bore mute evidence of regimental
discipline. The blankets--with the sheets placed in the centre--were
strapped into a neat roll at the head of each tartan-rugged cot, at the
foot of which lay a folded black oil-sheet. Above, on a small shelf,
were the spare uniform and Stetson hat, flanked on either side by a pair
of high brown "Strathcona" riding-boots, with straight-shanked
"cavalry-jack" spurs attached. On pegs underneath hung the regulation
side-arms,--a "Sam Browne" belt and holster containing the Colt's .45
Service revolver. A rifle-rack at the end of the room contained its quota
of Winchester carbines.
The last arrival, whom the sleeper had designated "Redmond,"
proceeded to divest himself of his short fur coat and, after dashing the
snow from it and his muskrat-faced cap, unbuckled his side-arms, and
hung all up at the head of his own particular cot.
Flashing across our retrospective mind-screens, as at times we dreamily
delve into the past, beloved faces come and go. Forever in the memory

of the writer, as his ideal conception of healthy, virile splendid Youth
personified, will stand the bronzed, debonair, clean-shaven young face
of George Redmond--or "Reddy," as he was more familiarly dubbed by
his comrades of L. Division.
Handsome his countenance could not have been termed--the features
were too strongly-marked and roughly-hewn. But it was an undeniably
open, attractive and honest one--the sort of face that instinctively
invited one's "Hail, fellow, well met!" trust at first sight. His hair was
dark auburn in colour, short and wavy, with a sort of golden tinge in it;
his forehead was broad and open, and below it were two uncommonly
waggish blue eyes. His habitual expression was a mixture of
nonchalant good humour and gay insouciance, but the slightly aquiline,
prominent nose and the set of the square aggressive jaw belied in a
measure the humourous curl of the lips.
Those who knew his disposition well were fully aware how swiftly the
mocking smile could vanish from that indolent young face on
occasion--how unpleasantly those wide blue orbs could contract
beneath scowling brows into mere pin-points of steel and ice. Slightly
above middle height, well-set-up and strongly, though not heavily
made, the lines of his clean-built figure suggested the embodiment of
grace, strength and activity.
He was dressed in the regulation winter uniform of the Force,
consisting of a scarlet-serge tunic, dark-blue cord riding breeches with
the broad yellow stripe down the side, thick black woollen stockings
reaching to the knee, and buckskin moccasins with spurs attached. Over
the stockings, and rolled tightly down upon the tops of the moccasins
as snow-excluders, were a pair of heavy gray socks.
Wriggling out of his tightly-fitting red serge he carelessly flung that
article onto the next cot; then, filling and lighting a pipe, he stretched
out comfortably upon his own. With hands clasped behind his head he
lazily watched the two previously-mentioned men at their cleaning
operations, his expressive face registering indolent but mischievous
interest, as he listened to their wrangling.

"No!" resumed one of the twain emphatically, apropos of some
previous contention, "No, by gum! this division ain't what it used to be
in them days."
He gave vent to a reminiscent sigh as he spat upon and rubbed up some
powdered brick-dust.
"Billy Herchmer was O.C., Fred Bagley was Sergeant-Major--and there
was Harry Hetherington, Ralph Bell, De Barre, Jeb Browne, Pennycuik,
and all them old-timers. Eyah! th' times that was! th' times that was!
Force's all filled up now mostly with 'Smart Aleck' kids, like Reddy,
here, an'"--he shot a glance of calculating invitation at his vis-a-vis,
Hardy--"'old sweats' from the Old Country Imperials."
Artfully to start some trivial but decidedly inflammable barrack-room
argument was one of Corporal Dave McCullough's pet diversions. At
this somewhat doubtful pastime he would exhibit a knowledge of
human nature and an infinite patience worthy of a better object. From
some occult reasoning of his Celtic soul the psychological moment he
generally chose as being likely the most fruitful of results was either a
few minutes before, or after "Lights Out."
When the ensuing conflagration had