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Updated: June 27, 2025
"Ah!" quoth McCullough blithely, "Yu' know th' sayin' 'Old soldier old stiff? . . ." His adversary burnished a spur viciously. "Old pleeceman old son of a " he retorted with a spiteful grin. "W'y, my old Kissiwasti here knows more abaht drill'n wot you do." He indicated a rather disreputable-looking gray parrot, preening itself in a cage which stood upon a cot nearby.
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.
"I don't think!" he concluded sotto voce to Davis, as that individual, sitting down on the next cot began preparing his wounded arm for the ministrations of Sister Marthe who had just entered the ward. "No use!" McCullough rambled on. "I tell yu' th' man's as good as 'gone up. Harry. . . . Well! I'll have old Kissiwasti when he pegs out anyway. I won't half smoke-dry th' old beggar then!
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