with an old hum-brella!"

There was a clerk who stood six-foot eight who was something of a
"knut." He told me that at home he belonged to a "Lit'ry Society," and I
asked him what books they had and which he liked.

"Books?" he asked. "'Ow d'yow mean?"

"You said a Literary Society, didn't you?"

"Oh yes, we 'ave got books. But, you know, we go down there and 'ave
a concert, or read the papers, and 'ave a social, perhaps, you know;
sometimes ask the girls round to afternoon tea."

I had a barrack-room full of these people to look after. Most of them
got drunk. Once a young medical student tried to knife me with a Chinese
jack-knife which his uncle, a missionary, had given him. He had "downed"
too much whisky. Just as boys do at school, so these men formed into
cliques, and "hung together" in twos and threes.

Some of them, like the "lit'ry society" clerk, had never seen much of
life or people; had lived in a little suburban villa and pretended to
be "City men." Others had knocked about all over the world. These were
mostly seafaring men. Savage was such a one. He was one of the buccaneer
type, strong and sunburnt, with tattooed arms. Often he sang an old
sea-song, which always ended, "Forty-five fadom, and a clear sandy
bottom!" He knew most of the sea chanties of the old days, one of which
went something in this way--

"Heave away Rio! Heave away Rio!
So fare thee well, my sweet pretty maid!
Heave away Rio! Heave away Rio!
For there's plenty of gold--so we've been told--
On the banks of the Sacrament--o!"

An old Irish apple-woman used to come into the barracks, and sit by
the side of the parade ground with two baskets of apples and a box of
chocolate.

She did a roaring trade when we were dismissed from drill.

We always addressed her as "Mother." She looked so witch-like that one
day I asked--

"Can you tell a fortune, Mother?"

"Lord-love-ye, no! Wad ye have the Cuss o' Jazus upon us all? Ye shud
see the priest, sor."

"And can he?"

"No, Son! All witch-craftin' is forbid in the Book by the Holy Mother o'
Gord, so they do be tellin' me."

"Can no one in all Ireland read a fortune now, Mother?"

"Ach, Son, 'tis died out, sure. Only in the old out-an'-away parts 'tis
done; but 'tis terrible wicked!"

She was a good bit of colour. I have her still in my pocket-book. Her
black shawl with her apples will always remind me of early barrack-days
at Limerick if I live to be ni