.

"Ah, they sure was. But where are they all now?" he rambled on in
garrulous reminiscence, "some of 'em rich--some of 'em broke--an' many of
'em back on th' old Force again, an' glad to get their rations. There
was some that talked like you, Mister Bloomin' Reddy!--fed up, an' goin'
to quit--an' did quit--for a time. There was Corky Jones, I mind. Him
that used to blow 'bout th' wonderful jobs he'd got th' pick of when he
was 'time-ex.' All he got was 'reeve' of some little shi-poke burg down
south. Hooshomin its real name, but they mostly call it Hootch
thereabouts. A rotten little dump of 'bout fifty inhabitants. They're
drunk half th' time an' wear each other's clothes. Ugh! filthy
beggars! . . . He's back on th' Force again. There was Gadgett Malone.
Proper dog he was--used to sing 'Love me, an' th' World is Mine.' He got
all balled up with a widder, first crack out o' th' box, an' she shook
him down for his roll an' put th' skids under him in great shape inside
of a month. He's back on th' Force again. There was Barton McGuckin.
When he pulled out he shook hands all around, I mind. Yes, sir! with
tears in his eyes he did. Told us no matter how high he rose in th'
world he'd never forget his old comrades--always rec'gnize 'em on th'
street an' all that. On his way down town he was fool enough to go into
one o' these here Romany Pikey dives for to get his fortune told. This
gypsy woman threw it into him he was goin' to make his fortune in th'
next two or three days by investin' his dough in a certain brand of oil
shares. . . ."

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." He launched into a lurid account of a border hill-scuffle
that his regiment had b