I came across him on the rim of the bog. He stood before a
whitewashed cabin glaring fiercely over the brown world.
A coal-black dudeen hung empty and bottom up from his puckered mouth,
a rumpled frieze cap was perilously balanced atop of a fringe of
white hair. His full figure, upholstered in a worn velvet waistcoat,
was thrust well forward as if daring Fate to hit it another blow.
At the moment he was acting as a scratching-post to a large white
billy-goat, which chafed itself luxuriously to and fro against his
straddled legs. At the sound of my horse's hoofs he turned his head.
At the sight of my uniform his eyes brightened, he withdrew a smutty
hand from a corduroy pocket and made a travesty of a salute towards
his cap, which almost lost its balance.
"Hey! Good day to ye, Captain!" (I am a second lieutenant, but in
Ireland every lance-corporal has visionary batons on his
shoulder-straps.)
I replied suitably, agreed that the weather was fine for the second
and trusted, if we were good, we might have an hour of it.
"How is it wid the War this mornin', yer honour?"
I replied that, as far as I knew, it was still there, had passed a
quiet night and was doing nicely, thanks.
"Was you ever at the Front, Captain?"