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"Morituri te salufant!" he muttered in his harsh, growling bass the speech nevertheless of an educated man. "Eh, fwhat?" queried Slavin vaguely. The classical allusion was lost on him, but Kilbride and Yorke exchanged a grim, meaning smile as they recalled the ancient formula of the Roman arena. McSporran pushed forward a chair, into which Gully dropped heavily.
But that wos old Doolally all over . . . yer might s'y 'e 'adn't no sense o' 'umor, that man. Down country we moves next d'y, for Peshawur, where th' reg'ment lay. We'd copped a thunderin' lot o' prisoners th' Mullah an' all." "Wha' d'ye ca' a Mullah?" queried McSporran, with grave interest. Hardy, carbine-barrel between knees struggled with a "pull-through."
Outside, the blizzard still moaned and beat upon the windows, packing the wind-driven snow in huge drifts about the big main building. Inside, the canteen roared "Then I say, boys! who's for a drink with me? Rum, tum! tiddledy-um! we'll have a fair old spree!" McSporran slid off his cot with surprising alacrity. "Here's ane!" he announced blithely.
McSporran received the news with his customary stolidity, only his gray eyes twinkled and he chuntered something that was totally unintelligible to anyone save himself. But its effect upon McCullough and Hardy was peculiar, not to say, startling in the extreme. With brush and burnisher clutched in their respective hands they both turned and gaped upon him fish-eyed for the moment.
McSporran!" he hissed in a loud eager whisper, "Jes' 'awk t' im? . . . gort th' real reg'mental tatch 'as old Kissiwasti! ain't he?" his face shone with simple pride "d' yer 'ken' that? sh-sh! listen now! . . . Yer shud 'ear 'im s'y 'Oot, mon! . . . 'Awk t'im up an' tellin'yer w'y th' Jocks wear th' kilts." Awhile McSporran listened, but with singular lack of enthusiasm.
McSporran, back on his cot with hands clasped behind his head, gobbled an owlish "Hoot, mon! th' twa o' them thegither! . . . Losh! but that beats a' . . . but, hoo lang, O Lard? hoo lang?" From various sources George had picked up the broken ends of many strange rumours relating to the personality and escapades of one Constable Yorke, of the Davidsburg detachment, whom he had never seen as yet.
But now, with the coming of night, he seemed to grow restless pacing within the narrow confines of his cell like unto a trapped wolf, his leg-shackles clanking at every turn. Seated outside the barred door, McSporran maintained a close and vigilant guard.
I've been in some queer holes and corners on this globe in my time long before I ever took on the Force. Seems he has, too, from what you and Yorke have told me. D d strange! . . . I've got a fairly good memory for faces but " He broke off and looked enquiringly at McSporran, who had silently entered just then. "What is it, McSporran?" "Gully, Sirr!" responded the constable, saluting.
Half of the party, under a sergeant, crept along below the sheltering river bank where they soon joined the wearied, but still vigilant, Yorke. The rest, under the inspector, making a wide detour of the ranch, gained the brush on its eastern side. Among this last party were Hardy, McSporran and McCullough.
The other, hesitating a moment, swallowed nervously in his agitation. "Yes," he said huskily, "I know but that's all right! . . . As I said before it can make little or no difference . . . in my case. . . ." Turning, Kilbride silently motioned to McSporran to unlock the cell-door.
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