"Ye'll
do well later," sez Crook, very quiet, "for not bein' allowed to kill
yourself for amusemint."
'"I'm a dishgraced man!" sez the little orf'cer bhoy.
'"Put me undher arrest, Sorr, if you will, but, by my sowl, I'd do ut
again sooner than face your mother wid you dead," sez the Sargint that
had sat on his head, standin' to attention an' salutin'. But the young
wan only cried as tho' his little heart was breakin'.
'Thin another man av the Tyrone came up, wid the fog av fightin' on
him.'
'The what, Mulvaney?'
'Fog av fightin'. You know, Sorr, that, like makin' love, ut takes
each man diff'rint. Now I can't help bein' powerful sick whin I'm in
action. Orth'ris, here, niver stops swearin' from ind to ind, an' the
only time that Learoyd opins his mouth to sing is whin he is messin'
wid other people's heads; for he's a dhirty fighter is Jock. Recruities
sometime cry, an' sometime they don't know fwhat they do, an' sometime
they are all for cuttin' throats an' such like dirtiness; but some men
get heavy-dead-dhrunk on the fightin'. This man was. He was staggerin',
an' his eyes were half shut, an' we cud hear him dhraw breath twinty
yards away.
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