He was engaged in
making up deficiencies of kit preparatory to a campaign, and in
that work he steals best who steals last. "Ah, Mulcahy, you're in
good time," he shouted, "We've got the route, and we're off on
Thursday for a pic-nic wid the Lancers next door."
An ambulance orderly appeared with a huge basket full of lint
rolls, provided by the forethought of the Queen for such as might
need them later on. Horse Egan unrolled his bandage, and flicked
it under Mulcahy's nose, chanting -
"Sheepskin an' bees' wax, thunder, pitch, and plaster,
The more you try to pull it off, the more it sticks the faster.
As I was goin' to New Orleans -
"You know the rest of it, my Irish American-Jew boy. By gad, ye
have to fight for the Queen in the inside av a fortnight, my
darlin'"
A roar of laughter interrupted. Mulcahy looked vacantly down the
room. Bid a boy defy his father when the pantomime-cab is at the
door, or a girl develop a will of her own when her mother is
putting the last touches to the first ball-dress, but do not ask
an Irish regiment to embark upon mutiny on the eve of a campaign,
when it has fraternised with the native regiment that accompanies
it, and driven its officers into retirement with ten thousand
clamorous questions, and the
prisoners dance for joy, and the sick men stand in the open
calling down all known diseases on the head of the doctor, who has
certified that they are
"medically unfit for active service.
Pages:
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91