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He launched into a lurid account of a border hill-scuffle that his regiment had been engaged in relating all its ghastly details with great gusto. "Cleared me lance-point ten times that d'y," he remarked laconically. "Flint was aour Orf'cer Commandin' Old 'Doolally Flint' 'ard old 'ranker' 'e wos. 'E'd worked us sumphin' crool that week. Night marches an' wot not.
'Arry Wagstaff, as wos in Number Two Squordron 'e pulls a bit o' chork aht of 'is pocket, an' 'e marks on 'is bowlder in big, fat letters 'Lucky soors in bed ev'ry night' but old Doolally 'appened to turn rahnd an' cop 'im at it. Drum-'ead coort-martial 'Arry gort for that, an' drew ten d'ys Number One Field Punishment.
I mind I'd jes kern a-staggerin' ap wiv a big stowne for th' 'ead o' Number Free trench, but Doolally kep me a-markin time till 'e wos ready. 'Kem ap a bit, Private 'Ardy, 'e sez, 'kem ap a bit! you're aht o' yer dressin'! 'e sez.
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."
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