We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome--
Our ship is _at_ the shore,
An' you mus' pack your 'aversack,
For we won't come back no more.
Ho, don't you grieve for me,
My lovely Mary Ann,
For I'll many you yet on a fourp'ny bit,
As a time expired ma-a-an!
_Barrack-room Ballad._
An awful thing has happened! My friend, Private Mulvaney, who went home
in the _Serapis_, time-expired, not very long ago, has come back to
India as a civilian! It was all Dinah Shadd's fault. She could not stand
the poky little lodgings, and she missed her servant Abdullah more than
words could tell. The fact was that the Mulvaneys had been out here too
long, and had lost touch of England.
Mulvaney knew a contractor on one of the new Central India lines, and
wrote to him for some sort of work. The contractor said that if Mulvaney
could pay the passage he would give him command of a gang of coolies for
old sake's sake. The pay was eighty-five rupees a month, and Dinah Shadd
said that if Terence did not accept she would make his life a 'basted
purgathory.' Therefore the Mulvaneys came out as 'civilians,' which
was a great and terrible fall; though Mulvaney tried to disguise it,
by saying that he was 'Ker'nel on the railway line, an' a consequinshal
man.'
He wrote me an invitation, on a tool-indent form, to visit him; and I
came down to the funny little 'construction' bungalow at the side of
the line. Dinah Shadd had planted peas about and about, and nature had
spread all manner of green stuff round the place. There was no change in
Mulvaney except the change of clothing, which was deplorable, but could
not be helped. He was standing upon his trolly, haranguing a gangman,
and his shoulders were as well drilled, and his big, thick chin was as
clean-shaven as ever.
'I'm a civilian now,' said Mulvaney. 'Cud you tell that I was iver a
martial man? Don't answer, Sorr, av you're strainin' betune a compliment
an' a lie. There's no houldin' Dinah Shadd now she's got a house av her
own. Go inside, an' dhrink tay out av chiny in the drrrrawin'-room,
an' thin we'll dhrink like Christians undher the tree here. Scutt, ye
naygur-folk! There's a Sahib come to call on me, an' that's more than
he'll iver do for you onless you run! Get out, an' go on pilin' up the
earth, quick, till sundown.'
When we three were comfortably settled under the big _sisham_ in front
of the bungalow, and the first rush of questions and answers about
Privates Ortheris and Learoyd and old times and places had died away,
Mulvaney said, reflectively--'Glory be there's no p'rade to-morrow, an'
no bun-headed Corp'ril-bhoy to give you his lip. An' yit I don't know.
'Tis harrd to be something ye niver were an' niver meant to be, an' all
the ould days shut up along wid your papers. Eyah! I'm growin' rusty,
an' 'tis the will av God that a man mustn't serve his Quane for time an'
all.'
He helped himself to a fresh peg, and sighed furiously.
'Let your beard grow, Mulvaney,' said I, 'and then you won't be troubled
with those notions. You'll be a real civilian.'
Dinah Shadd had told me in the drawing-room of her desire to coax
Mulvaney into letting his beard grow. 'Twas so civilian-like,' said poor
Dinah, who hated her husband's hankering for his old life.
'Dinah Shadd, you're a dishgrace to an honust, clanescraped man!'
said Mulvaney, without replying to me. 'Grow a beard on your own chin,
darlint, and lave my razors alone. They're all that stand betune me
and dis-ris-pect-ability. Av I didn't shave, I wud be torminted wid an
outrajis thurrst; for there's nothin' so dhryin' to the throat as a
big billy-goat beard waggin' undher the chin. Ye wudn't have me dhrink
ALWAYS, Dinah Shadd? By the same token, you're kapin' me crool dhry now.
Let me look at that whiskey.'
The whiskey was lent and returned, but Dinah Shadd, who had been just as
eager as her husband in asking after old friends, rent me with--
'I take shame for you, Sorr, coming down here--though the Saints
know you're as welkim as the daylight whin you DO come--an' upsettin'
Terence's head wid your nonsense about--about fwhat's much better
forgotten. He bein' a civilian now, an' you niver was aught else. Can
you not let the Arrmy rest? 'Tis not good for Terence.'