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'If a man's wife or gel or sister or friend wants to send 'im some smokes they cuts this coo-pon, same's I've said, an' sends it up to the paper, wi' sixpence an' the reg'mental number an' name of the man the gift's to go to. An' the paper buys the 'baccy, gettin' it cheap becos o' buyin' tons an' tons, an' sends a packet out wi the chap's number an' name and reg'ment wrote on it. So 'e gets it.
I tell yer that man 'ad no 'eart for men or 'orses. An' you tork ababt bein' reel reg'mental, Mac! . . . 'e wos a reg'mental old soor if yer like! . . . Fit to drop we wos wot wos left o' us, an' th' bloody sun goin' down an' all. But no! 'e give us no rest burial fatigue right away. Free big trenches we buried aour pore fellers in I can see 'em now. . . ."
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.
'Afther that I sickened awhile an' tuk thought to my reg'mental work; conceiting mesilf I wud study an' be a sergint, an' a major-gineral twinty minutes afther that. But on top av my ambitiousness there was an empty place in my sowl, an' me own opinion av mesilf cud not fill ut. Sez I to mesilf, "Terence, you're a great man an' the best set-up in the reg'mint. Go on an' get promotion."
"Afther that I sickened awhile an' tuk thought to my reg'mental work; conceiting mesilf I wud study an' be a sargint, an' a major-gineral twinty minutes afther that. But on top av my ambitiousness there was an empty place in my sowl, an' me own opinion av mesilf cud not fill ut. Sez I to mesilf, 'Terence, you're a great man an' the best set-up in the reg'mint.
McCullough paused and filled his pipe with elaborate care, "Th' last time I see him he was in th' buildin' an' contractin' line carryin' a hod an' pushin' an Irishman's buggy . . . There's but, aw hell! what's th' use o' talkin'?" he concluded disgustedly. "No! times ain't what they was, by gum! rough stuff an' all things was run more real reg'mental them days not half th' grousin' either."
"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."
"Copy of the Times" said the blameless Alf, from beneath his blanket. "I ain't a member of the Soldier's Institoot. Go an' look in the reg'mental Readin'-room Veldt Row, Kopje Street, second turnin' to the left between 'ere an' Naauwport." Jenkins summarised briefly in a tense whisper the thing that Alf Copper need not be.
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