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."

"Wha' d'ye ca' a Mullah?" queried McSporran, with grave interest.

Hardy, carbine-barrel between knees--struggled with a "pull-through."
"Mullah? well, 'e's a sorter--sorter 'ead blowke," he mumbled lamely.

"Kind of High Priest?" ventured George.

The old soldier beamed upon him gratefully, "Ar, that's wot I meant. 'E