The Luck of the Mounted: A Tale of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police. Ralph S. Kendall
old soldier grinned diabolically. "Sorjint?" he broke in mincingly "c'n I fall out an' tork t' me sister?—garn, Reddy! wipe orf yer chin! … though if I did 'appen t' 'ave a sister she might s'y th' sime fing abaht me, now, as she might s'y abaht you—to a lydy-fren' o' 'er's, p'raps. … "
"Say what?" demanded George incautiously.
Hardy chuckled again, "'Ere comes one o' them Mounted Pleecemen, me dear—orl comb an' spurs—mark time in front there … !" And he emitted an imitation of a barnyard cackle.
McCullough shot a glance at Redmond's face. "Can th' grief" he remarked unsympathetically, "you're fly enough usually … but you fairly asked for it that time."
Hardy spat into a cuspidor with long-range accuracy. He beamed with cheerful malevolence awhile upon his tormentors; then, uplifting a cracked falsetto in an unmusical wail, to the tune of "London Bridge is Falling Down," assured them that—
"Old soweljers never die, never die, never die, Old soweljers never—"
With infinite mockery Redmond's boyish voice struck in—
"Young soldiers wish they would, wish they—"
"'Ere!" remonstrated Hardy darkly, "chack it, Reddy! … You know wot 'appens t' them as starts in, a-guyin' old soweljers?—eh?—Well, I tell yer now!—worse'n wot 'appened t' them fresh kids in th' Bible wot mocked th' old blowke abaht 'is bald 'ead."
"Isch ga bibble! I don't care!" bawled the abandoned George; "can't be much worse than doing 'straight duty' round Barracks, here!—same thing, day in, day out—go and look at the 'duty detail' board—Regimental Number—Constable Redmond, 'prisoner's escort'—punching gangs of prisoners around all day long, on little rotten jobs about Barracks—and 'night guard' catching you every third night and—"
"Oyez! oyez! oyez! you good men of this—"
"Oh, yes! you can come the funny man all right, Mac—you've got a 'staff' job. Straight duty don't affect you. Why don't they shove me out on detachment again, and give me another chance to do real police work? … I tell you I'm fed up—properly. … I wish I was out of the blooming Force—I'm not 'wedded' to it, like you."
"'Ear, 'ear!" chimed in Hardy, with a sort of miserable heartiness. McSporran's contribution was merely a dour Scotch grin. In the moment's silence that followed a tremendous bawling squall of wind rocked the building to its very foundations. The back-draught of it sucked open the door, and, borne upon its wings, the roaring, full-chorused burst of a popular barrack-room chantey floated up the stairs from the canteen below—
"Old King Cole was a merry old soul, And a merry old soul was he— He called for his pipe, and he called for his glass, And he called for his old M.P."
Outside the blizzard still moaned and howled; every now and then, between lulls, screeching gusts of sleet beat upon the windows. The parrot, clinging upside down to the roof of its cage, winked rapidly with Sphinx-like eyes and inclined its head sideways in an intent listening attitude.
"Eyah! but th' Force's a bloomin' good home to some of you, all th' same," growled McCullough. "Listen to that 'norther'? … How'd you like to be chucked out into th' cold, cold world right now?—You, Hardy! that's never done nothin' but 'soldier' all your life—you, Reddy! with your 'collidge edukashun'?"
George, unmoved, listened respectfully awhile, lying on his stomach with his chin cupped in his hands. "Must have been a great bunch of fellows when you first took on the Force, Dave?" he queried presently.
From sheer force of habit the old policeman glanced at his interlocutor suspiciously. But that young gentleman's face appearing open and serene, merely expressing naive interest, he grunted an affirmative "Uh-huh!" and backed his conviction with a cheerful oath.
"Ah, they sure was. But where are they all now?" he rambled on in garrulous reminiscence, "some of 'em rich—some of 'em broke—an' many of 'em back on th' old Force again, an' glad to get their rations. There was some that talked like you, Mister Bloomin' Reddy!—fed up, an' goin' to quit—an' did quit—for a time. There was Corky Jones, I mind. Him that used to blow 'bout th' wonderful jobs he'd got th' pick of when he was 'time-ex.' All he got was 'reeve' of some little shi-poke burg down south. Hooshomin its real name, but they mostly call it Hootch thereabouts. A rotten little dump of 'bout fifty inhabitants. They're drunk half th' time an' wear each other's clothes. Ugh! filthy beggars! … He's back on th' Force again. There was Gadgett Malone. Proper dog he was—used to sing 'Love me, an' th' World is Mine.' He got all balled up with a widder, first crack out o' th' box, an' she shook him down for his roll an' put th' skids under him in great shape inside of a month. He's back on th' Force again. There was Barton McGuckin. When he pulled out he shook hands all around, I mind. Yes, sir! with tears in his eyes he did. Told us no matter how high he rose in th' world he'd never forget his old comrades—always rec'gnize 'em on th' street an' all that. On his way down town he was fool enough to go into one o' these here Romany Pikey dives for to get his fortune told. This gypsy woman threw it into him he was goin' to make his fortune in th' next two or three days by investin' his dough in a certain brand of oil shares. … "
McCullough paused and filled his pipe with elaborate care, "Th' last time I see him he was in th' buildin' an' contractin' line—carryin' a hod an' pushin' an Irishman's buggy … There's—but, aw hell! what's th' use o' talkin'?" he concluded disgustedly. "No! times ain't what they was, by gum!—rough stuff an' all things was run more real reg'mental them days—not half th' grousin' either."
"Reel reg'mental?" echoed Hardy mincingly, "aowe gorblimey! 'awk t'im? well, wot abaht it? I've done my bit, too!—in Injia. See 'ere; look!"
He pulled up the loose duck-pant of his right leg. On the outside of the hairy, spare but muscular limb, an ugly old dirty-white scar zigzagged from knee to ankle.
"Paythan knife," he informed them briefly, "but I did th' blowke in wot give it me." He launched into a lurid account of a border hill-scuffle that his regiment had been engaged in relating all its ghastly details with great gusto. "Cleared me lance-point ten times that d'y," he remarked laconically. "Flint was aour Orf'cer Commandin'—Old 'Doolally Flint'—'ard old 'ranker' 'e wos. 'E'd worked us sumphin' crool that week. Night marches an' wot not. I tell yer that man 'ad no 'eart for men or 'orses. An' you tork ababt bein' reel reg'mental, Mac! … 'e 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 stunk that 'igh th' Colonel 'e sez—"
The storm doors banged below. "Redmond!—oh,