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Page 17
"No! not Burke, old man! . . . ah, don't!" gasped the rich tenor voice
pleadingly from the snow--"ah, don't, Burke! . . . remember,
remember . . . St. Agnes' Eve--
"St. Agnes' Eve. Ah! bitter chill it was,
The--"
It broke--that throbbing voice with its strange, impassioned appeal. Far
away over the snow the faint, silvery ring of a locomotive gong fell upon
the ears of the trio almost like the deep, solemn tolling of bells.
Then slowly, and seemingly in pain, the prostrate man arose.
And yet! Redmond mused, sorry a figure as he cut just then, minus
fur-cap and plastered with snow, alone with the shame which was his, he
had an air, a certain dignity of mien, this man, Yorke, which stamped him
far above the common run of men.
The junior constable, as he noted the dark hair, silvering and worn away
at the temples, adjudged him to be somewhere between thirty and
forty--thirty-five was his exact age as he ascertained later.
Now, with the air of a fallen angel, he stood there in the cold,
snow-dazzling moonlight; his face registering silent resignation as to
whatever else might befall him. The sergeant had stepped forward.
Redmond looked on, in dazed apprehension. A solemn hush had fallen upon
the strange scene, and stranger trio. Their figures flung weird,
fantastic shadows across the diamond-sparkling snow-crust. George
glanced at Slavin, and that individual's demeanor amazed him still
further. The big man's face was transformed. There seemed something
very terrible just then in the pathetic working of his rugged features,
as if he were striving to allay some powerful inward emotion. Then
huskily, but not unkindly--as perchance the father may have spoken to the
prodigal son--came his soft brogue:
"Get yu tu bed, Yorkey! get yu tu bed, man! . . . an' thry me no
more! . . . ."
Mutely, like a child, Yorke obeyed the order. Glancing at Redmond he
turned and walked unsteadily into the detachment.
Perturbed and utterly mystified at the sordid drama he had witnessed, its
amazing combination of brutality and pathos, George remained rooted to
the spot as one in a dream. Instinctively though, he felt that this was
not the first time of its enactment. Mechanically he watched the door
close; then sounding far off and indistinct, Slavin's hoarse whisper in
his ear brought him down to Mother Earth again with a vengeance:
"Did ye mark him stoop an' 'plant' th' 'hootch?'"
George nodded. "I wasn't quite wise to what he was at," he answered.
"Let us go get ut!" said Sergeant Slavin grimly, marching to the spot, "I
will not have dhrink brought into th' detachment! . . . 'tis against
ordhers."
He bent down, straightened up, and turning to Redmond who had joined him
exhibited a bottle. He held it up to the light of the moon. It appeared
to be about half empty. Extracting the cork, he smelt.
"'Tis whiskey," he murmured simply--much as Mr. Pickwick said: "It is
punch." He made casual examination of the green and gold label.
"'Burke's Oirish,' begob! . . . eyah! a brave ould uniform but"--he
turned a moist eye on his subordinate--"a desp'ritly wounded souldier
that wears ut--betther out av pain. 'Tis an' ould sayin': 'Whin ye meet
th' divil du not turn tail but take um by th' harns.' . . . Bhoy! I
thrust the honest face av yeh--I have tuk tu ye since th' handy lad ye
showt yersilf with that team mix-up th' morn."
Redmond, mollified, grinned shiveringly. "I don't mind a snort,
Sergeant," he said, "it's d----d cold out here. Beer's more in my line
though. Salue!"
He took a swallow or two; the bottle changed hands.
"Eyah!" remarked Slavin sometime later--cuddling the bottle at the "port
arms." "'Tis put th' kibosh on many a good man in th' ould Force has
this same dhrink. Th' likes av Yorkey there"--he jerked his head at the
lighted window--"shud never touch ut--never touch ut! . . . Cannot
flirrt wid a bottle--'tis wedded they wud be tu ut. Now meself"--he
paused impressively--"I can take me dhrink like a ginthleman--can take
ut, or lave ut alone."
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