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