Not only to enforce by command but to encourage by example
the energetic discharge of duty and the steady endurance of
the difficulties and privations inseparable from Military
Service.--Bengal Army Regulations.
They made Bobby Wick pass an examination at Sandhurst. He was a
gentleman before he was gazetted, so, when the Empress announced that
“Gentleman-Cadet Robert Hanna Wick” was posted as Second Lieutenant to
the Tyneside Tail Twisters at Krab Bokhar, he became an officer and a
gentleman, which is an enviable thing; and there was joy in the house
of Wick, where Mamma Wick and all the little Wicks fell upon their knees
and offered incense to Bobby by virtue of his achievements.
Papa Wick had been a Commissioner in his day, holding authority over
three millions of men in the Chota-Buldana Division, building great
works for the good of the land, and doing his best to make two blades
of grass grow where there was but one before. Of course, nobody knew
anything about this in the little English village where he was just “old
Mr. Wick” and had forgotten that he was a Companion of the Order of the
Star of India.
He patted Bobby on the shoulder and said: “Well done, my boy!”
There followed, while the uniform was being prepared, an interval of
pure delight, during which Bobby took brevet-rank as a “man” at the
women-swamped tennis-parties and tea-fights of the village, and, I
daresay, had his joining-time been extended, would have fallen in love
with several girls at once. Little country villages at Home are very
full of nice girls, because all the young men come out to India to make
their fortunes.
“India,” said Papa Wick, “is the place. I've had thirty years of it,
and, begad, I'd like to go back again. When you join the Tail Twisters
you'll be among friends, if every one hasn't forgotten Wick of
Chota-Buldana, and a lot of people will be kind to you for our sakes.
The mother will tell you more about outfit than I can, but remember
this. Stick to your Regiment, Bobby--stick to your Regiment. You'll see
men all round you going into the Staff Corps, and doing every possible
sort of duty but regimental, and you may be tempted to follow suit. Now
so long as you keep within your allowance, and I haven't stinted you
there, stick to the Line, the whole Line, and nothing but the Line. Be
careful how you back another young fool's bill, and if you fall in love
with a woman twenty years older than yourself, don't tell me about it,
that's all.”
With these counsels, and many others equally valuable, did Papa Wick
fortify Bobby ere that last awful night at Portsmouth when the Officers'
Quarters held more inmates than were provided for by the Regulations,
and the liberty-men of the ships fell foul of the drafts for India, and
the battle raged from the Dockyard Gates even to the slums of Longport,
while the drabs of Fratton came down and scratched the faces of the
Queen's Officers.
Bobby Wick, with an ugly bruise on his freckled nose, a sick and shaky
detachment to manoeuvre inship, and the comfort of fifty scornful
females to attend to, had no time to feel homesick till the Malabar
reached mid-Channel, when he doubled his emotions with a little
guard-visiting and a great many other matters.
The Tail Twisters were a most particular Regiment. Those who knew them
least said that they were eaten up with “side.” But their reserve and
their internal arrangements generally were merely protective diplomacy.
Some five years before, the Colonel commanding had looked into the
fourteen fearless eyes of seven plump and juicy subalterns who had all
applied to enter the Staff Corps, and had asked them why the three
stars should he, a colonel of the Line, command a dashed nursery for
double-dashed bottle-suckers who put on condemned tin spurs and rode
qualified mokes at the hiatused heads of forsaken Black Regiments. He
was a rude man and a terrible. Wherefore the remnant took measures
(with the half-butt as an engine of public opinion) till the rumour
went abroad that young men who used the Tail Twisters as a crutch to the
Staff Corps had many and varied trials to endure. However, a regiment
has just as much right to its own secrets as a woman.
When Bobby came up from Deolali and took his place among the Tail
Twisters, it was gently but firmly borne in upon him that the Regiment
was his father and his mother and his indissolubly wedded wife, and
that there was no crime under the canopy of heaven blacker than that
of bringing shame on the Regiment, which was the best-shooting,
best-drilled, best set-up, bravest, most illustrious, and in all
respects most desirable Regiment within the compass of the Seven Seas.
He was taught the legends of the Mess Plate, from the great grinning
Golden Gods that had come out of the Summer Palace in Pekin to the
silver-mounted markhor-horn snuffmull presented by the last C. O. (he
who spake to the seven subalterns). And every one of those legends told
him of battles fought at long odds, without fear as without support; of
hospitality catholic as an Arab's; of friendships deep as the sea and
steady as the fighting-line; of honour won by hard roads for honour's
sake; and of instant and unquestioning devotion to the Regiment--the
Regiment that claims the lives of all and lives forever.
More than once, too, he came officially into contact with the Regimental
colours, which looked like the lining of a bricklayer's hat on the end
of a chewed stick. Bobby did not kneel and worship them, because British
subalterns are not constructed in that manner. Indeed, he condemned them
for their weight at the very moment that they were filling him with awe
and other more noble sentiments.
But best of all was the occasion when he moved with the Tail Twisters
in review order at the breaking of a November day. Allowing for duty-men
and sick, the Regiment was one thousand and eighty strong, and Bobby
belonged to them; for was he not a Subaltern of the Line,--the whole
Line and nothing but the Line,--as the tramp of two thousand one hundred
and sixty sturdy ammunition boots attested? He would not have changed
places with Deighton of the Horse Battery, whirling by in a pillar of
cloud to a chorus of “Strong right! Strong left!” or Hogan-Yale of the
White Hussars, leading his squadron for all it was worth, with the price
of horseshoes thrown in; or “Tick” Boileau, trying to live up to his
fierce blue and gold turban while the wasps of the Bengal Cavalry
stretched to a gallop in the wake of the long, lollopping Walers of the
White Hussars.
They fought through the clear cool day, and Bobby felt a little thrill
run down his spine when he heard the tinkle-tinkle-tinkle of the empty
cartridge-cases hopping from the breech-blocks after the roar of the
volleys; for he knew that he should live to hear that sound in action.
The review ended in a glorious chase across the plain--batteries
thundering after cavalry to the huge disgust of the White Hussars, and
the Tyneside Tail Twisters hunting a Sikh Regiment till the lean, lathy
Singhs panted with exhaustion. Bobby was dusty and dripping long before
noon, but his enthusiasm was merely focused--not diminished.
He returned to sit at the feet of Revere, his “skipper,” that is to say,
the Captain of his Company, and to be instructed in the dark art and
mystery of managing men, which is a very large part of the Profession of
Arms.
“If you haven't a taste that way,” said Revere between his puffs of
his cheroot, “you'll never be able to get the hang of it, but remember,
Bobby, 'tisn't the best drill, though drill is nearly everything, that
hauls a Regiment through Hell and out on the other side. It's the man
who knows how to handle men--goat-men, swine-men, dog-men, and so on.”
“Dormer, for instance,” said Bobby; “I think he comes under the head of
fool-men. He mopes like a sick owl.”
“That 's where you make your mistake, my son. Dormer isn't a fool yet,
but he's a dashed dirty soldier, and his room corporal makes fun of his
socks before kit-inspection. Dormer, being two-thirds pure brute, goes
into a corner and growls.”
“How do you know'?” said Bobby admiringly.
“Because a Company commander has to know these things--because, if he
does not know, he may have crime--ay, murder--brewing under his very
nose and yet not see that it's there. Dormer is being badgered out of
his mind--big as he is--and he hasn't intellect enough to resent it.
He's taken to quiet boozing, and, Bobby, when the butt of a room goes on
the drink, or takes to moping by himself, measures are necessary to pull
him out of himself.”
“What measures? Man can't run round coddling his men for ever.”
“No. The men would precious soon show him that he was not wanted. You've
got to--”
Here the Colour-sergeant entered with some papers; Bobby reflected for a
while as Revere looked through the Company forms.
“Does Dormer do anything, Sergeant?” Bobby asked with the air of one
continuing an interrupted conversation.
“No, sir. Does 'is dooty like a hortomato,” said the Sergeant, who
delighted in long words. “A dirty soldier, and 'e's under full stoppages
for new kit. It's covered with scales, sir.”
“Scales? What scales?”
“Fish-scales, sir. 'E's always pokin' in the mud by the river an'
a-cleanin' them muchly-fish with 'is thumbs.” Revere was still absorbed
in the Company papers, and the Sergeant, who was sternly fond of Bobby,
continued,--“'E generally goes down there when 'e's got 'is skinful,
beggin' your pardon, sir, an' they do say that the more lush--inebriated
'e is, the more fish 'e catches. They call 'im the Looney Fishmonger in
the Comp'ny, sir.”
Revere signed the last paper and the Sergeant retreated.
“It's a filthy amusement,” sighed Bobby to himself. Then aloud to
Revere: “Are you really worried about Dormer?”
“A little. You see he's never mad enough to send to hospital, or drunk
enough to run in, but at any minute he may flare up, brooding and
sulking as he does. He resents any interest being shown in him, and the
only time I took him out shooting he all but shot me by accident.”
“I fish,” said Bobby, with a wry face. “I hire a country-boat and go
down river from Thursday to Sunday, and the amiable Dormer goes with
me--if you can spare us both.”
“You blazing young fool!” said Revere, but his heart was full of much
more pleasant words.
Bobby, the Captain of a dhoni, with Private Dormer for mate, dropped
down the river on Thursday morning--the Private at the bow, the
Subaltern at the helm. The Private glared uneasily at the Subaltern, who
respected the reserve of the Private.
After six hours, Dormer paced to the stern, saluted, and said--“Beg
y' pardon, sir, but was you ever on the Durh'm Canal?”
“No,” said Bobby Wick. “Come and have some tiffin.”
They ate in silence. As the evening fell, Private Dormer broke forth,
speaking to himself--
“Hi was on the Durh'm Canal, jes' such a night, come next week
twelvemonth, a-trailin' of my toes in the water.” He smoked and said no
more till bedtime.
The witchery of the dawn turned the gray river-reaches to purple, gold,
and opal; and it was as though the lumbering dhoni crept across the
splendours of a new heaven.
Private Dormer popped his head out of his blanket and gazed at the glory
below and around.
“Well--damn--my eyes!” said Private Dormer in an awed whisper. “This
'ere is like a bloomin' gallantry-show!” For the rest of the day he was
dumb, but achieved an ensanguined filthiness through the cleaning of big
fish.
The boat returned on Saturday evening. Dormer had been struggling with
speech since noon. As the lines and luggage were being disembarked, he
found tongue.
“Beg y' pardon, sir,” he said, “but would you--would you min' shakin'
'ands with me, sir?”
“Of course not,” said Bobby, and he shook accordingly. Dormer returned
to barracks and Bobby to mess.
“He wanted a little quiet and some fishing, I think,” said Bobby. “My
aunt, but he's a filthy sort of animal! Have you ever seen him clean
'them muchly-fish with 'is thumbs?”
“Anyhow,” said Revere three weeks later, “he's doing his best to keep
his things clean.”
When the spring died, Bobby joined in the general scramble for Hill
leave, and to his surprise and delight secured three months.
“As good a boy as I want,” said Revere, the admiring skipper.
“The best of the batch,” said the Adjutant to the Colonel. “Keep back
that young skrimshanker Porkiss, sir, and let Revere make him sit up.”
So Bobby departed joyously to Simla Pahar with a tin box of gorgeous
raiment.
“Son of Wick--old Wick of Chota-Buldana? Ask him to dinner, dear,” said
the aged men.
“What a nice boy!” said the matrons and the maids.
“First-class place, Simla. Oh, ri----ipping!” said Bobby Wick, and
ordered new white cord breeches on the strength of it.
“We're in a bad way,” wrote Revere to Bobby at the end of two months.
“Since you left, the Regiment has taken to fever and is fairly rotten
with it--two hundred in hospital, about a hundred in cells--drinking to
keep off fever--and the Companies on parade fifteen file strong at the
outside. There's rather more sickness in the out-villages than I care
for, but then I'm so blistered with prickly-heat that I'm ready to hang
myself. What's the yarn about your mashing a Miss Haverley up there? Not
serious, I hope? You're over-young to hang millstones round your neck,
and the Colonel will turf you out of that in double-quick time if you
attempt it.”
It was not the Colonel that brought Bobby out of Simla, but a much more
to be respected Commandant. The sickness in the out-villages spread,
the Bazar was put out of bounds, and then came the news that the
Tail Twisters must go into camp. The message flashed to the Hill
stations.--“Cholera--Leave stopped--Officers recalled.” Alas, for the
white gloves in the neatly soldered boxes, the rides and the dances and
picnics that were to be, the loves half spoken, and the debts unpaid!
Without demur and without question, fast as tonga could fly or pony
gallop, back to their Regiments and their Batteries, as though they were
hastening to their weddings, fled the subalterns.
Bobby received his orders on returning from a dance at Viceregal Lodge,
where he had but only the Haverley girl knows what Bobby had said or how
many waltzes he had claimed for the next ball. Six in the morning saw
Bobby at the Tonga Office in the drenching rain, the whirl of the last
waltz still in his ears, and an intoxication due neither to wine nor
waltzing in his brain.
“Good man!” shouted Deighton of the Horse Battery through the mists.
“Whar you raise dat tonga? I'm coming with you. Ow! But I've a head and
half. I didn't sit out all night. They say the Battery's awful bad,” and
he hummed dolorously--
“Leave the what at the what's-its-name,
Leave the flock without shelter,
Leave the corpse uninterred,
Leave the bride at the altar
“My faith! It'll be more bally corpse than bride, though, this journey.
Jump in, Bobby. Get on, Coachwan!”
On the Umballa platform waited a detachment of officers discussing the
latest news from the stricken cantonment, and it was here that Bobby
learned the real condition of the Tail Twisters.
“They went into camp,” said an elderly Major recalled from the
whist-tables at Mussoorie to a sickly Native Regiment, “they went into
camp with two hundred and ten sick in carts. Two hundred and ten fever
cases only, and the balance looking like so many ghosts with sore eyes.
A Madras Regiment could have walked through 'em.”
“But they were as fit as be-damned when I left them!” said Bobby.
“Then you'd better make them as fit as be-damned when you rejoin,” said
the Major brutally.
Bobby pressed his forehead against the rain-splashed window-pane as the
train lumbered across the sodden Doab, and prayed for the health of the
Tyneside Tail Twisters. Naini Tal had sent down her contingent with
all speed; the lathering ponies of the Dalhousie Road staggered into
Pathankot, taxed to the full stretch of their strength; while from
cloudy Darjiling the Calcutta Mail whirled up the last straggler of the
little army that was to fight a fight, in which was neither medal nor
honour for the winning, against an enemy none other than “the sickness
that destroyeth in the noonday.”
And as each man reported himself, he said: “This is a bad business,”
and went about his own forthwith, for every Regiment and Battery in the
cantonment was under canvas, the sickness bearing them company.
Bobby fought his way through the rain to the Tail Twisters' temporary
mess, and Revere could have fallen on the boy's neck for the joy of
seeing that ugly, wholesome phiz once more.
“Keep 'em amused and interested,” said Revere. “They went on the drink,
poor fools, after the first two cases, and there was no improvement. Oh,
it's good to have you back, Bobby! Porkiss is a--never mind.”
Deighton came over from the Artillery camp to attend a dreary mess
dinner, and contributed to the general gloom by nearly weeping over the
condition of his beloved Battery. Porkiss so far forgot himself as to
insinuate that the presence of the officers could do no earthly good,
and that the best thing would be to send the entire Regiment into
hospital and “let the doctors look after them.” Porkiss was demoralised
with fear, nor was his peace of mind restored when Revere said coldly:
“Oh! The sooner you go out the better, if that's your way of thinking.
Any public school could send us fifty good men in your place, but it
takes time, time, Porkiss, and money, and a certain amount of trouble,
to make a Regiment. S'pose you're the person we go into camp for, eh?”
Whereupon Porkiss was overtaken with a great and chilly fear which a
drenching in the rain did not allay, and, two days later, quitted this
world for another where, men do fondly hope, allowances are made for the
weaknesses of the flesh. The Regimental Sergeant-Major looked wearily
across the Sergeants' Mess tent when the news was announced.
“There goes the worst of them,” he said. “It'll take the best, and then,
please God, it'll stop.” The Sergeants were silent till one said: “It
couldn't be him!” and all knew of whom Travis was thinking.
Bobby Wick stormed through the tents of his Company, rallying,
rebuking, mildly, as is consistent with the Regulations, chaffing the
fainthearted; haling the sound into the watery sunlight when there was
a break in the weather, and bidding them be of good cheer, for their
trouble was nearly at an end; scuttling on his dun pony round the
outskirts of the camp and heading back men who, with the innate
perversity of British soldiers, were always wandering into infected
villages, or drinking deeply from rain-flooded marshes; comforting the
panic-stricken with rude speech, and more than once tending the dying
who had no friends--the men without “townies”; organizing, with banjos
and burnt cork, Sing-songs which should allow the talent of the
Regiment full play; and generally, as he explained, “playing the giddy
garden-goat all round.”
“You're worth half a dozen of us, Bobby,” said Revere in a moment of
enthusiasm. “How the devil do you keep it up?”
Bobby made no answer, but had Revere looked into the breast-pocket of
his coat he might have seen there a sheaf of badly-written letters which
perhaps accounted for the power that possessed the boy. A letter came
to Bobby every other day. The spelling was not above reproach, but the
sentiments must have been most satisfactory, for on receipt Bobby's eyes
softened marvellously, and he was wont to fall into a tender abstraction
for a while ere, shaking his cropped head, he charged into his work.
By what power he drew after him the hearts of the roughest, and the
Tail Twisters counted in their ranks some rough diamonds indeed, was
a mystery to both skipper and C. O., who learned from the regimental
chaplain that Bobby was considerably more in request in the hospital
tents than the Reverend John Emery.
“The men seem fond of you. Are you in the hospitals much?” said the
Colonel, who did his daily round and ordered the men to get well with a
hardness that did not cover his bitter grief.
“A little, sir,” said Bobby.
“Shouldn't go there too often if I were you. They say it's not
contagious, but there's no use in running unnecessary risks. We can't
afford to have you down, y' know.”
Six days later, it was with the utmost difficulty that the post-runner
plashed his way out to the camp with the mail-bags, for the rain was
falling in torrents. Bobby received a letter, bore it off to his tent,
and, the programme for the next week's Sing-song being satisfactorily
disposed of, sat down to answer it. For an hour the unhandy pen toiled
over the paper, and where sentiment rose to more than normal tide-level,
Bobby Wick stuck out his tongue and breathed heavily. He was not used to
letter-writing.
“Beg y' pardon, sir,” said a voice at the tent door; “but Dormer's
'orrid bad, sir, an' they've taken him orf, sir.”
“Damn Private Dormer and you too!” said Bobby Wick, running the blotter
over the half-finished letter. “Tell him I'll come in the morning.”
“'E's awful bad, sir,” said the voice hesitatingly. There was an
undecided squelching of heavy boots.
“Well?” said Bobby impatiently.
“Excusin' 'imself before 'and for takin' the liberty, 'e says it would
be a comfort for to assist 'im, sir, if--tattoo lao! Get my pony! Here,
come in out of the rain till I'mready. What blasted nuisances you are!
That's brandy. Drink some; you want it. Hang on to my stirrup and tell
me if I go too fast.”
Strengthened by a four-finger “nip” which he swallowed without a wink,
the Hospital Orderly kept up with the slipping, mud-stained, and very
disgusted pony as it shambled to the hospital tent.
Private Dormer was certainly “'orrid bad.” He had all but reached the
stage of collapse, and was not pleasant to look upon.
“What's this, Dormer?” said Bobby, bending over the man. “You're not
going out this time. You've got to come fishing with me once or twice
more yet.”
The blue lips parted and in the ghost of a whisper said,--“Beg y'
pardon, sir, disturbin' of you now, but would you min' 'oldin' my 'and,
sir'?”
Bobby sat on the side of the bed, and the icy-cold hand closed on his
own like a vice, forcing a lady's ring which was on the little finger
deep into the flesh. Bobby set his lips and waited, the water dripping
from the hem of his trousers. An hour passed, and the grasp of the hand
did not relax, nor did the expression of the drawn face change. Bobby
with infinite craft lit himself a cheroot with the left hand (his right
arm was numbed to the elbow), and resigned himself to a night of pain.
Dawn showed a very white-faced Subaltern sitting on the side of a
sick man's cot, and a Doctor in the doorway using language unfit for
publication.
“Have you been here all night, you young ass?” said the Doctor.
“There or thereabouts,” said Bobby ruefully. “He's frozen on to me.”
Dormer's mouth shut with a click. He turned his head and sighed. The
clinging hand opened, and Bobby's arm fell useless at his side.
“He'll do,” said the Doctor quietly. “It must have been a toss-up all
through the night. 'Think you're to be congratulated on this case.”
“Oh, bosh!” said Bobby. “I thought the man had gone out long
ago--only--only I didn't care to take my hand away. Rub my arm down,
there's a good chap. What a grip the brute has! I'm chilled to the
marrow!” He passed out of the tent shivering.
Private Dormer was allowed to celebrate his repulse of Death by strong
waters. Four days later, he sat on the side of his cot and said to the
patients mildly: “I'd 'a' liken to 'a' spoken to 'im--so I should.”
But at that time Bobby was reading yet another letter,--he had the most
persistent correspondent of any man in camp,--and was even then about to
write that the sickness had abated, and in another week at the outside
would be gone. He did not intend to say that the chill of a sick man's
hand seemed to have struck into the heart whose capacities for affection
he dwelt on at such length. He did intend to enclose the illustrated
programme of the forthcoming Sing-song, whereof he was not a little
proud. He also intended to write on many other matters which do not
concern us, and doubtless would have done so but for the slight feverish
headache which made him dull and unresponsive at mess.
“You are overdoing it, Bobby,” said his skipper. “'Might give the rest
of us credit of doing a little work. You go on as if you were the whole
Mess rolled into one. Take it easy.”
“I will,” said Bobby. “I'm feeling done up, somehow.” Revere looked at
him anxiously and said nothing.
There was a flickering of lanterns about the camp that night, and a
rumour that brought men out of their cots to the tent doors, a paddling
of the naked feet of doolie-bearers, and the rush of a galloping horse.
“Wot's up?” asked twenty tents; and through twenty tents ran the
answer--“Wick, 'e's down.”
They brought the news to Revere and he groaned. “Any one but Bobby and I
shouldn't have cared! The Sergeant-Major was right.”
“Not going out this journey,” gasped Bobby, as he was lifted from
the doolie. “Not going out this journey.” Then with an air of supreme
conviction--“I can't, you see.”
“Not if I can do anything!” said the Surgeon-Major, who had hastened
over from the mess where he had been dining.
He and the Regimental Surgeon fought together with Death for the life
of Bobby Wick. Their work was interrupted by a hairy apparition in a
blue-gray dressing-gown, who stared in horror at the bed and cried--“Oh,
my Gawd! It can't be 'im!” until an indignant Hospital Orderly whisked
him away.
If care of man and desire to live could have done aught, Bobby would
have been saved. As it was, he made a fight of three days, and the
Surgeon-Major's brow uncreased. “We'll save him yet,” he said; and the
Surgeon, who, though he ranked with the Captain, had a very youthful
heart, went out upon the word and pranced joyously in the mud.
“Not going out this journey,” whispered Bobby Wick gallantly, at the end
of the third day.
“Bravo!” said the Surgeon-Major. “That's the way to look at it, Bobby.”
As evening fell a gray shade gathered round Bobby's mouth, and he turned
his face to the tent-wall wearily. The Surgeon-Major frowned.
“I'm awfully tired,” said Bobby, very faintly. “What's the use of
bothering me with medicine? I--don't--want--it. Let me alone.”
The desire for life had departed, and Bobby was content to drift away on
the easy tide of Death.
“It's no good,” said the Surgeon-Major. “He doesn't want to live. He's
meeting it, poor child.” And he blew his nose.
Half a mile away, the regimental band was playing the overture to the
Sing-song, for the men had been told that Bobby was out of danger. The
clash of the brass and the wail of the horns reached Bobby's ears.
Is there a single joy or pain,
That I should never kno-ow?
You do not love me, 'tis in vain,
Bid me good-bye and go!
An expression of hopeless irritation crossed the boy's face, and he
tried to shake his head.
The Surgeon-Major bent down--“What is it, Bobby?”---“Not that waltz,”
muttered Bobby. “That's our own--our very ownest own... Mummy dear.”
With this he sank into the stupor that gave place to death early next
morning.
Revere, his eyes red at the rims and his nose very white, went into
Bobby's tent to write a letter to Papa Wick which should bow the white
head of the ex-Commissioner of Chota-Buldana in the keenest sorrow of
his life. Bobby's little store of papers lay in confusion on the table,
and among them a half-finished letter. The last sentence ran: “So you
see, darling, there is really no fear, because as long as I know you
care for me and I care for you, nothing can touch me.”
Revere stayed in the tent for an hour. When he came out, his eyes were
redder than ever.
Private Conklin sat on a turned-down bucket, and listened to a not
unfamiliar tune. Private Conklin was a convalescent and should have been
tenderly treated.
“Ho!” said Private Conklin. “There's another bloomin' orf'cer da-ed.”
The bucket shot from under him, and his eyes filled with a smithyful of
sparks. A tall man in a blue-gray bedgown was regarding him with deep
disfavour.
“You ought to take shame for yourself, Conky! Orf'cer?--bloomin'
orf'cer? I'll learn you to misname the likes of 'im. Hangel! Bloomin'
Hangel! That's wot 'e is!”
And the Hospital Orderly was so satisfied with the justice of the
punishment that he did not even order Private Dormer back to his cot.