"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