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