The Luck of the Mounted: A Tale of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police. Ralph S. Kendall
of healthy, virile splendid Youth personified, will stand the bronzed, debonair, clean-shaven young face of George Redmond—or "Reddy," as he was more familiarly dubbed by his comrades of L. Division.
Handsome his countenance could not have been termed—the features were too strongly-marked and roughly-hewn. But it was an undeniably open, attractive and honest one—the sort of face that instinctively invited one's "Hail, fellow, well met!" trust at first sight. His hair was dark auburn in colour, short and wavy, with a sort of golden tinge in it; his forehead was broad and open, and below it were two uncommonly waggish blue eyes. His habitual expression was a mixture of nonchalant good humour and gay insouciance, but the slightly aquiline, prominent nose and the set of the square aggressive jaw belied in a measure the humourous curl of the lips.
Those who knew his disposition well were fully aware how swiftly the mocking smile could vanish from that indolent young face on occasion—how unpleasantly those wide blue orbs could contract beneath scowling brows into mere pin-points of steel and ice. Slightly above middle height, well-set-up and strongly, though not heavily made, the lines of his clean-built figure suggested the embodiment of grace, strength and activity.
He was dressed in the regulation winter uniform of the Force, consisting of a scarlet-serge tunic, dark-blue cord riding breeches with the broad yellow stripe down the side, thick black woollen stockings reaching to the knee, and buckskin moccasins with spurs attached. Over the stockings, and rolled tightly down upon the tops of the moccasins as snow-excluders, were a pair of heavy gray socks.
Wriggling out of his tightly-fitting red serge he carelessly flung that article onto the next cot; then, filling and lighting a pipe, he stretched out comfortably upon his own. With hands clasped behind his head he lazily watched the two previously-mentioned men at their cleaning operations, his expressive face registering indolent but mischievous interest, as he listened to their wrangling.
"No!" resumed one of the twain emphatically, apropos of some previous contention, "No, by gum! this division ain't what it used to be in them days."
He gave vent to a reminiscent sigh as he spat upon and rubbed up some powdered brick-dust.
"Billy Herchmer was O.C., Fred Bagley was Sergeant-Major—and there was Harry Hetherington, Ralph Bell, De Barre, Jeb Browne, Pennycuik, and all them old-timers. Eyah! th' times that was! th' times that was! Force's all filled up now mostly with 'Smart Aleck' kids, like Reddy, here, an'"—he shot a glance of calculating invitation at his vis-a-vis, Hardy—"'old sweats' from the Old Country Imperials."
Artfully to start some trivial but decidedly inflammable barrack-room argument was one of Corporal Dave McCullough's pet diversions. At this somewhat doubtful pastime he would exhibit a knowledge of human nature and an infinite patience worthy of a better object. From some occult reasoning of his Celtic soul the psychological moment he generally chose as being likely the most fruitful of results was either a few minutes before, or after "Lights Out."
When the ensuing conflagration had blazed to the desired stage he would quietly extinguish his own vocal torch and lie back on his cot with a sort of "Mark Antony" "Now let it work!" chuckle. "Getting their goats" he termed it. Usually though, when the storm of bad language and boots had subsided, his dupes, too, like those of "Silver Street" were wont to scratch their heads and commune one with another:—
—begod, I wonder why?
He was a heavy-shouldered man; middle-aged, with thick, crisp iron-gray hair and moustache and a pair of humourous brown eyes twinkling in a lined, weather-beaten face. His slightly nasal voice was dry and penetrating to the point of exasperation. For many years he had acted as "farrier" to L. Division.
George warily accepted the share of the pleasantry extended to him with a shrug, and a non-committal grin. But Hardy chose to regard it as a distinct challenge, and therefore a promising bone of contention. He gloated over it awhile ere pouncing.
A medium-sized, wiry, compactly-built man bodily, Hardy bore lightly the weight of his forty-five years. His hair was of that uncertain sandy colour which somehow never seems to turn gray; the edges of the crisply-curling forelock being soaped, rolled and brushed up into that approved tonsorial ornament known in barrack-room parlance as a "quiff." His complexion was of that peculiar olive-brown shade especially noticeable in most Anglo-Indians. In his smart, soldierly aspect, biting, jerky Cockney speech and clipped, wax-pointed moustache he betrayed unmistakably the ex-Imperial cavalry-man.
"Old sweats!" he echoed sarcastically—he pronounced it "aoweld"—"Yas! you go tell that t' th' Marines, me lad! … Took a few o' th' sime 'old sweats' t' knock ''Ay Leg!' 'Straw Leg' inter some o' you mossbacks at th' stort orf. Gee! Har! oh, gorblimey, yas!" He illustrated his trenchant remarks in suggestive pantomime.
"Ah!" quoth McCullough blithely, "Yu' know th' sayin'—'Old soldier—old stiff?' … "
His adversary burnished a spur viciously. "Old pleeceman—old son of a—" he retorted with a spiteful grin. "W'y, my old Kissiwasti here knows more abaht drill'n wot you do." He indicated a rather disreputable-looking gray parrot, preening itself in a cage which stood upon a cot nearby.
At the all-familiar sound of its name the bird suddenly ceased its monotonous beak and claw gymnastics for a space, becoming on the instant alertly attentive. There came a preliminary craning of neck and winking of white-parchment-lidded eyes, and then, in shockingly human fashion it proceeded to give voluble utterance to some startling samples of barrack-room profanity. Its shrill invective would have awakened the dead. The whistling, regular snores of the sleeper suddenly wound up with a gasping gurgle; he opened his eyes and, in a strong cereal accent gave vent to a somnolent peevish protest.
"Losh! … whot wi' you fellers bickerin' an' yon damn birrd currsin' I canna sleep! … gie th'—"
But Hardy silenced him with a warning finger.
"Sh-sh! McSporran!" he hissed in a loud eager whisper, "Jes' 'awk t' im? … gort th' real reg'mental tatch 'as old Kissiwasti! ain't he?"—his face shone with simple pride—"d' yer 'ken' that? sh-sh! listen now! … Yer shud 'ear 'im s'y 'Oot, mon!' … 'Awk t'im up an' tellin'yer w'y th' Jocks wear th' kilts."
Awhile McSporran listened, but with singular lack of enthusiasm. Presently, swinging his legs over the side of the cot with a weary sigh, he proceeded to fill his pipe. He was a thick-set, grey-eyed fair man about thirty, with a stolid, though shrewd, clean-shaven face.
"Best ye stickit tae wha' ye ca' 'English,' auld mon!" he remarked irritably, "Baith yersel' an' yer plurry pairrut. … Ou ay, I ken!—D'ye ken John Peel?—"
And, in derision he hummed a few lines of a rather vulgar parody of that ancient song that obtained around Barracks.
"Say, by gad, though! that bird is a fright!" ejaculated George suddenly, "Holy Doodle! just listen to what he said then? … If ever he starts in to hand out tracts like that when the O.C.'s up here inspecting he'll get invested with the Order of the 'Neck-Wring' for usurping his pet privilege. You'd better let Brankley the quartermaster have him. He was up here the other day and heard him. He was tickled to death—said he'd like to buy him off you, and 'top him off'—finish his education."
"Oh, 'e did, did 'e?" growled Hardy mutinously, but with ill-concealed interest, "Well, 'e ain't a-goin' t' 'ave 'im!" He breathed hard upon a buckle and polished it to his satisfaction. "Brankley is some connosser I will admit," he conceded grudgingly, "but Kissiwasti's got orl th' 'toppin orf wot's good fur 'im—dahn Regina—'e went through a reg'lar course dahn there—took 'is degree, so t' speak. … I uster tike an' 'ang 'is kydge hup in that little gallery in th' ridin school of a mornin'—when Inspector Chappell, th' ridin' master wos breakin' in a bunch o' rookies—'toppin' orf,' wot? … "
"Tchkk!" clucked McCullough wearily. "What is the use of arguin' with an old sweat like him? … Hardy'll be happy enough in Hell, so long as he can have his bloomin' old blackguard of a parrot along with him. If he can't there will be a pretty fuss."
"Bear up, Hardy!" comforted George. "When you've got that 'quiff' of yours all fussed up, and those new 'square-pushin''