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"'Ere!" remonstrated Hardy darkly, "chack it, Reddy! . . . You know wot 'appens t' them as starts in, a-guyin' old soweljers? eh? Well, I tell yer now! worse'n wot 'appened t' them fresh kids in th' Bible wot mocked th' old blowke abaht 'is bald 'ead." "Isch ga bibble!
Then in a simple way he began to talk about his "missis," and what a good creature she was, and finally announced himself "gyme" to help a parson "as stood up to that there drunken blowke for sake of a woman." "What's your name?" said John. "Jupe," said the man, and then something stirred in John's memory. On the following day John Storm dined with his uncle at Downing Street.
"Reel reg'mental?" echoed Hardy mincingly, "aowe gorblimey! 'awk t'im? well, wot abaht it? I've done my bit, too! in Injia. See 'ere; look!" He pulled up the loose duck-pant of his right leg. On the outside of the hairy, spare but muscular limb, an ugly old dirty-white scar zigzagged from knee to ankle. "Paythan knife," he informed them briefly, "but I did th' blowke in wot give it me."
"Mullah? well, 'e's a sorter sorter 'ead blowke," he mumbled lamely. "Kind of High Priest?" ventured George. The old soldier beamed upon him gratefully, "Ar, that's wot I meant. 'E stunk that 'igh th' Colonel 'e sez " The storm doors banged below. "Redmond! oh, Redmond!" The great, booming, bass voice rang echoing up the stairway. Involuntarily they all sprang to an attitude of alert attention.
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