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Updated: June 22, 2025
An' be was a moild man! But I'm digresshin'. 'Tis a shame both to the rig'mints and the Arrmy sendin' down little orf'cer bhoys wid a draf' av strong men mad wid liquor an' the chanst av gettin' shut av India, an' niver a punishment that's fit to be given right down an' away from cantonmints to the dock! 'Tis this nonsinse.
An' he was a moild man! But I'm digreshin'. 'Tis a shame both to the rig'mints and the Arrmy sendin' down little orf'cer bhoys wid a draf av strong men mad wid liquor an' the chanst av gettin' shut av India, an' niver a punishment that's fit to be given right down an' away from cantonmints to the dock! 'Tis this nonsince.
"The Staff Orf'cer wint blue, an' Toomey makes him pink by changin' to the voice av a minowderin' woman an' sayin': 'Come an' kiss me, Major dear, for me husband's at the wars an' I'm all alone at the Depot. "The Staff Orf'cer wint away, an' I cud see Crook's shoulthers shakin'. "His Corp'ril checks Toomey. 'Lave me alone, sez Toomey, widout a wink.
'Rowl some rocks on thim by way av visitin'-kyards. We hadn't rowled more than twinty bowlders, an' the Paythans was beginnin' to swear tremenjus, whin the little orf'cer bhoy av the Tyrone shqueaks out acrost the valley: 'Fwhat the devil an' all are you doin', shpoilin' the fun for my men? Do ye not see they'll stand? "'Faith, that's a rare pluckt wan! sez Crook. 'Niver mind the rocks, men.
Orf'cers was scarce in thim days, fwhat with dysintry an' not takin' care av thimselves, an' we was sint out wid only wan orf'cer for the comp'ny; but he was a Man that had his feet beneath him, an' all his teeth in their sockuts." "Who was he?" I asked, "Captain O'Neil Old Crook Cruikna-bulleen him that I tould ye that tale av whin he was in Burma. Hah! He was a Man.
'Well an' far out av harm was a Sargint av the Tyrone sittin' on the little orf'cer bhoy who had stopped Crook from rowlin' the rocks. Oh, he was a beautiful bhoy, an' the long black curses was slidin' out av his innocint mouth like mornin'-jew from a rose! "Fwhat have you got there?" sez I to the Sargint. "Wan av Her Majesty's bantams wid his spurs up," sez he. "He's goin' to Coort-martial me."
My perliceman knew an older orf'cer who was acquainted with Mr. Dickens. Mr. Dickens 'ad a full perliceman's suit 'imself, issued to 'im on an order from Scotland Yard, and he used to do patrol duty at night, carrying 'is bloomin' gloves in 'is 'and and 'is chinstrap in place. This was told me by my new-found friend, who volunteered to show me the way to North Gower Street.
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. He sees the little orf'cer bhoy, an' comes up, talkin' thick an' drowsy to himsilf.
I'll assist your autobiography. Wid that I stretched Peg Barney, boot an' all, an' wint into the camp. An awful sight ut was! "'Where's the orf'cer in charge av the detachment? sez I to Scrub Greene the manest little worm that ever walked. "'There's no orf'cer, ye ould cook, sez Scrub; 'we're a bloomin' Republic.
Whin I am servin' my time, I'm undher the Articles av War, an' can be whipped on the peg for thim. But whin I've served my time, I'm a Reserve man, an' the Articles av War haven't any hould on me. An orf'cer can't do anythin' to a time-expired savin' confinin' him to barricks. 'Tis a wise rig'lation bekaze a time-expired does not have any barricks; bein' on the move all the time.
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