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Page 4
"Oh, 'e did, did 'e?" growled Hardy mutinously, but with ill-concealed
interest, "Well, 'e ain't a-goin' t' 'ave 'im!" He breathed hard upon a
buckle and polished it to his satisfaction. "Brankley is some connosser
I will admit," he conceded grudgingly, "but Kissiwasti's got orl th'
'toppin orf wot's good fur 'im--dahn Regina--'e went through a reg'lar
course dahn there--took 'is degree, so t' speak. . . . I uster tike an'
'ang 'is kydge hup in that little gallery in th' ridin school of a
mornin'--when Inspector Chappell, th' ridin' master wos breakin' in a
bunch o' rookies--'toppin' orf,' wot? . . ."
"Tchkk!" clucked McCullough wearily. "What is the use of arguin' with an
old sweat like him? . . . Hardy'll be happy enough 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._"
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