nowhere provided for in the Army Regulations.

Great, too, was the glory that fell to Slane's share. The Gunners
would have made him drunk thrice a day for at least a fortnight.
Even the Colonel of his own regiment complimented him upon his
coolness, and the local paper called him a hero. These things did
not puff him up. When the Major offered him money and thanks, the
virtuous Corporal took the one and put aside the other. But he had
a request to make and prefaced it with many a "Beg y' pardon,
Sir." Could the Major see his way to letting the Slane-M'Kenna
wedding be adorned by the presence of four Battery horses to pull
a hired barouche? The Major could, and so could the Battery.
Excessively so. It was a gorgeous wedding.

"Wot did I do it for?" said Corporal Slane.
"For the 'orses o' course. Jhansi ain't a beauty to look at, but I
wasn't goin' to 'ave a hired turnout. Jerry Blazes? If I 'adn't
'a' wanted something, Sim might ha' blowed Jerry Blazes' blooming
'ead into Hirish stew for aught I'd 'a' cared."


And they hanged Private Simmons - hanged him as high as Haman in
hollow square of the regiment; and the Colonel said it was Drink;
and the Chaplain was sure it was the Devil; and Simmons fancied it
was both, but he didn't know, and only hoped his fate would be a
warning to his companions; and half a dozen "intelligent
publicists" wrote six beautiful leading articles on "The
Prevalence of Crime in the Army."

But not a soul thought of comparing the "bloody-minded Simmons" to