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'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.
In the hush of surprise his voice arose, addressing the fighters: "Bus you bleedin' soors, " said Corporal Cook. "Bus; and you dekho 'ere. If any of you jaos from where 'e is, I'll pukkaro 'im and give 'im a punch in the dekho." Enough, stop. Swine. Look.
"Sheer off, you black-an'- tan mongrels!" he roared at them. "Go an' ax some one to play on you with a hose-pipe. Jow, you soors! D'ye think the lady likes to be pisened?" He cleared a space, and rolled away towards the town.
He volleyed reproach and insult upon his listeners, he gave them taunts instead of persuasion. They stood enthralled by the passionate voice, and bitter words found their mark, and rankled poisonously. "These soors of Feringhi, whom you call your masters, beat you, and they use your brothers to be their sticks.
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