"'A man he is,' sez ould Hother; 'the draf's as sick as a herrin'.
They'll all go down to the sea like lambs. That bhoy has the
bowils av a cantonmint av Gin'rals.'

"'Amin,' sez I, 'an' good luck go wid him, wheriver he be, by
land or by sea. Let me know how the draf' gets clear.'

"An' do you know how they did? That bhoy, so I was tould by letter
from Bombay, bully-damned 'em down to the dock, till they cudn't
call their sowls their own. From the time they left me oi till
they was 'tween decks, not wan av thim was more than dacintly
dhrunk. An' by the Holy Articles av War, whin they wint aboord
they cheered him till they cudn't spake, an' that, mark you, has
not come about wid a draf' in the mlm'ry av livin' man! You look
to that little orf'cer bhoy. He has bowils. 'Tis not ivry child
that wud chuck the Rig'lations to Flanders an' stretch Peg Barney
on a wink from a brokin an' dilapidated ould carkiss like mysilf.
I'd be proud to serve -"

"Terence, you're a civilian," said Dinah Shadd warningly.

"So I am - so I am. Is ut likely I wud forget ut? But he was a
gran' bhoy all the same, an' I'm only a mudtipper wid a hod on me
shoulthers. The whiskey's in the heel av your hand, Sorr. Wid your
good lave we'll dhrink to the Ould Rig'mint - three fingers -
standin' up!"
And we drank.


THE MUTINEY OF THE MAVERICKS