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Page 5
Outside the blizzard still moaned and howled; every now and then, between
lulls, screeching gusts of sleet beat upon the windows. The parrot,
clinging upside down to the roof of its cage, winked rapidly with
Sphinx-like eyes and inclined its head sideways in an intent listening
attitude.
"Eyah! but th' Force's a bloomin' good home to some of you, all th'
same," growled McCullough. "Listen to that 'norther'? . . . How'd you
like to be chucked out into th' cold, cold world right now?--You, Hardy!
that's never done nothin' but 'soldier' all your life--you, Reddy! with
your 'collidge edukashun'?"
George, unmoved, listened respectfully awhile, lying on his stomach with
his chin cupped in his hands. "Must have been a great bunch of fellows
when you first took on the Force, Dave?" he queried presently.
From sheer force of habit the old policeman glanced at his interlocutor
suspiciously. But that young gentleman's face appearing open and serene,
merely expressing naive interest, he grunted an affirmative "Uh-huh!" and
backed his conviction with a cheerful oath.
"Ah, they sure was. But where are they all now?" he rambled on in
garrulous reminiscence, "some of 'em rich--some of 'em broke--an' many of
'em back on th' old Force again, an' glad to 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."
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