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Page 3
When the ensuing conflagration had blazed to the desired stage he would
quietly extinguish his own vocal torch and lie back on his cot with a
sort of "Mark Antony" "Now let it work!" chuckle. "Getting their goats"
he termed it. Usually though, when the storm of bad language and boots
had subsided, his dupes, too, like those of "Silver Street" were wont to
scratch their heads and commune one with another:--
--_begod, I wonder why_?
He was a heavy-shouldered man; middle-aged, with thick, crisp iron-gray
hair and moustache and a pair of humourous brown eyes twinkling in a
lined, weather-beaten face. His slightly nasal voice was dry and
penetrating to the point of exasperation. For many years he had acted as
"farrier" to L. Division.
George warily accepted the share of the pleasantry extended to him with a
shrug, and a non-committal grin. But Hardy chose to regard it as a
distinct challenge, and therefore a promising bone of contention. He
gloated over it awhile ere pouncing.
A medium-sized, wiry, compactly-built man bodily, Hardy bore lightly the
weight of his forty-five years. His hair was of that uncertain sandy
colour which somehow never seems to turn gray; the edges of the
crisply-curling forelock being soaped, rolled and brushed up into that
approved tonsorial ornament known in barrack-room parlance as a "quiff."
His complexion was of that peculiar olive-brown shade especially
noticeable in most Anglo-Indians. In his smart, soldierly aspect,
biting, jerky Cockney speech and clipped, wax-pointed moustache he
betrayed unmistakably the ex-Imperial cavalry-man.
"Old sweats!" he echoed sarcastically--he pronounced it "aoweld"--"Yas!
you go tell that t' th' Marines, me lad! . . . Took a few o' th' sime
'old sweats' t' knock ''Ay Leg!' 'Straw Leg' inter some o' you mossbacks
at th' stort orf. Gee! Har! oh, gorblimey, yas!" He illustrated his
trenchant remarks in suggestive pantomime.
"Ah!" quoth McCullough blithely, "Yu' know th' sayin'--'Old soldier--old
stiff?' . . ."
His adversary burnished a spur viciously. "Old pleeceman--old son of
a--" he retorted with a spiteful grin. "W'y, my old Kissiwasti here
knows more abaht drill'n wot you do." He indicated a rather
disreputable-looking gray parrot, preening itself in a cage which stood
upon a cot nearby.
At the all-familiar sound of its name the bird suddenly ceased its
monotonous beak and claw gymnastics for a space, becoming on the instant
alertly attentive. There came a preliminary craning of neck and winking
of white-parchment-lidded eyes, and then, in shockingly human fashion it
proceeded to give voluble utterance to some startling samples of
barrack-room profanity. Its shrill invective would have awakened the
dead. The whistling, regular snores of the sleeper suddenly wound up
with a gasping gurgle; he opened his eyes and, in a strong cereal accent
gave vent to a somnolent peevish protest.
"Losh! . . . whot wi' you fellers bickerin' an' yon damn birrd currsin' I
canna sleep! . . . gie th'--"
But Hardy silenced him with a warning finger.
"Sh-sh! McSporran!" he hissed in a loud eager whisper, "Jes' 'awk t'
im? . . . gort th' real reg'mental tatch 'as old Kissiwasti! ain't
he?"--his face shone with simple pride--"d' yer 'ken' that? sh-sh! listen
now! . . . Yer shud 'ear 'im s'y 'Oot, mon!' . . . 'Awk t'im up an'
tellin'yer _w'y_ th' Jocks wear th' kilts."
Awhile McSporran listened, but with singular lack of enthusiasm.
Presently, swinging his legs over the side of the cot with a weary sigh,
he proceeded to fill his pipe. He was a thick-set, grey-eyed fair man
about thirty, with a stolid, though shrewd, clean-shaven face.
"Best ye stickit tae wha' ye ca' 'English,' auld mon!" he remarked
irritably, "Baith yersel' an' yer plurry pairrut. . . . Ou ay, I
ken!--D'ye ken John Peel?--"
And, in derision he hummed a few lines of a rather vulgar parody of that
ancient song that obtained around Barracks.
"Say, by gad, though! that bird is a fright!" ejaculated George suddenly,
"Holy Doodle! just listen to what he said then? . . . If ever he starts
in to hand out tracts like that when the O.C.'s up here inspecting he'll
get invested with the Order of the 'Neck-Wring' for usurping _his_ pet
privilege. You'd better let Brankley the quartermaster have him. He was
up here the other day and heard him. He was tickled to death--said he'd
like to buy him off you, and 'top him off'--finish his education."
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