Dumfounded himself, George looked from one to the other, "What the
devil's wrong with you fools?" he queried irritably.

Thereupon, McCullough, still holding the eyes of the Cockney, gasped out
one magical word--"Yorkey!"

The spell was broken. "W'y, gorblimey!" said Hardy, "Ain't that
queer?--that's jes' wot I wos a-thinkin' . . . Well, Gawd 'elp Sorjint
Slavin now!" With which cryptic utterance he resumed his eternal
polishing.

"Amen!" responded the farrier piously, "Reddy, here, an' Yorkey on th'
same detachment. . . . What th' one don't know t'other'll teach
him. . . . You'd better let 'em have th' parrot, too."

McSporran, back on his cot with hands clasped behind his head, gobbled an
owlish "Hoot, mon! th' twa o' them thegither! . . . Losh! but that beats
a' . . . but, hoo lang, O Lard? hoo lang?"

From various sources George had picked up the broken ends of many strange
rumours relating to the personality and escapades of one Constable Yorke,
of the Davidsburg detachment, whom he had never seen as yet. A hint
here, a whisper there, a shrug and a low-voiced jest between the
sergeant-major and the quartermaster, overheard one day in the Matter's
store. To Redmond it seemed as if a veil of mystery had always enveloped
the person and doings of this man, Yorke. The glamour of it now aroused
all his latent curiosity.

"Why, what sort of a chap is this Yorke?" he inquired casually.