The Luck of the Mounted | Page 5

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 th' time an' wear each other's clothes. Ugh! filthy
beggars! . . . He's back on th' Force again. There was Gadgett Malone.
Proper dog he was--used to sing 'Love me, an' th' World is Mine.' He
got all balled up with a widder, first crack out o' th' box, an' she shook
him down for his roll an' put th' skids under him in great shape inside of
a month. He's back on th' Force again. There was Barton McGuckin.
When he pulled out he shook hands all around, I mind. Yes, sir! with
tears in his eyes he did. Told us no matter how high he rose in th' world
he'd never forget his old comrades--always rec'gnize 'em on th' street

an' all that. On his way down town he was fool enough to go into one o'
these here Romany Pikey dives for to get his fortune told. This gypsy
woman threw it into him he was goin' to make his fortune in th' next
two or three days by investin' his dough in a certain brand of oil
shares. . . ."
McCullough paused and filled his pipe with elaborate care, "Th' last
time I see him he was in th' buildin' an' contractin' line--carryin' a hod
an' pushin' an Irishman's buggy . . . There's--but, aw hell! what's th' use
o' talkin'?" he concluded disgustedly. "No! times ain't what they was,
by gum!--rough stuff an' all things was run more real reg'mental them
days--not half th' grousin' either."
"Reel reg'mental?" echoed Hardy mincingly, "aowe gorblimey! 'awk
t'im? well, wot abaht it? I've done my bit, too!--in Injia. See 'ere; look!"
He pulled up the loose duck-pant of his right leg. On the outside of the
hairy, spare but muscular limb, an ugly old dirty-white scar zigzagged
from knee to ankle.
"Paythan knife," he informed them briefly, "but I did th' blowke in wot
give it me." He launched into a lurid account of a border hill-scuffle
that his regiment had been engaged in relating all its ghastly details
with great gusto. "Cleared me lance-point ten times that d'y," he
remarked laconically. "Flint was aour Orf'cer Commandin'--Old
'Doolally Flint'--'ard old 'ranker' 'e wos. 'E'd worked us sumphin' crool
that week. Night marches an' wot not. I tell yer that man 'ad no 'eart for
men or 'orses. An' you tork ababt bein' reel reg'mental, Mac! . . . 'e wos
a reg'mental old soor if yer like! . . . Fit to drop we wos--wot wos left o'
us, an' th' bloody sun goin' down an' all. But no! 'e give us no
rest--burial fatigue right away. Free big trenches we buried aour pore
fellers in--I can see 'em now. . . ."
For some few seconds he ceased polishing his glossy,
mahogany-shaded "Sam Browne" belt, and, chin in hand, stared
unseeingly straight in front of him. His audience waited. "Arterwards!"
he cleared his throat, "arterwards--w'en we'd filled in 'e made us put th'
trimmin's on--line 'em out 'ead an' foot wiv big bowlders. I mind I'd jes

kern a-staggerin' ap wiv a big stowne for th' 'ead o' Number Free trench,
but Doolally kep me a-markin time till 'e wos ready. 'Kem ap a bit,
Private 'Ardy,' 'e sez, 'kem ap a bit! you're aht o' yer dressin'!' 'e sez.
'Arry Wagstaff, as wos in Number Two Squordron 'e pulls a bit o'
chork aht of 'is pocket, an' 'e marks on 'is bowlder in big, fat letters
'Lucky soors--in bed ev'ry night'--but old Doolally 'appened to turn
rahnd an' cop 'im at it. Drum-'ead coort-martial 'Arry gort for that, an'
drew ten d'ys Number One Field Punishment. But that wos old
Doolally all over . . . yer might s'y 'e 'adn't no sense o' 'umor, that man.
Down country we moves next d'y, for Peshawur, where th' reg'ment lay.
We'd copped a thunderin' lot o' prisoners--th' Mullah an' all."
"Wha' d'ye ca' a Mullah?" queried McSporran, with grave interest.
Hardy, carbine-barrel between knees--struggled with a "pull-through."
"Mullah? well, 'e's a sorter--sorter 'ead blowke," he mumbled lamely.
"Kind of High Priest?" ventured George.
The old soldier beamed upon him gratefully, "Ar, that's wot I meant. 'E
stunk that 'igh th' Colonel 'e sez--"
The storm doors banged below. "Redmond!--oh, Redmond!" The great,
booming, bass voice rang