war! My first
rig'mint was Oirish--Faynians an' rebils to the heart av their marrow
was they, an' _so_ they fought for the Widdy betther than most, bein'
contrairy--Oirish. They was the Black Tyrone. You've heard av thim,
Sorr?'

Heard of them! I knew the Black Tyrone for the choicest collection of
unmitigated blackguards, dog-stealers, robbers of hen-roosts,
assaulters of innocent citizens, and recklessly daring heroes in the
Army List. Half Europe and half Asia has had cause to know the Black
Tyrone--good luck be with their tattered Colours as Glory has ever
been!

'They _was_ hot pickils an' ginger! I cut a man's head tu deep wid my
belt in the days av my youth, an', afther some circumstances which I
will oblitherate, I came to the Ould Rig'mint, bearin' the character
av a man wid hands an' feet. But, as I was goin' to tell you, I fell
acrost the Black Tyrone agin wan day whin we wanted thim powerful bad.
Orth'ris, me son, fwhat was the name av that place where they sint wan
comp'ny av us an' wan av the Tyrone roun' a hill an' down again, all
for to tache the Paythans something they'd niver learned before?
Afther Ghuzni 'twas.'

'Don't know what the bloomin' Paythans called it. We called it
Silver's Theayter. You know that, sure!'

'Silver's Theatre--so 'twas. A gut betune two hills, as black as a
bucket, an' as thin as a girl's waist. There was over-many Paythans
for our convaynience in the gut, an' begad they called thimselves a
Reserve--bein' impident by natur'! Our Scotchies an' lashins av Gurkys
was poundin' into some Paythan rig'ments, I think 'twas. Scotchies and
Gurkys are twins bekaze they're so onlike, an' they get dhrunk
together when God plazes. As I was sayin', they sint wan comp'ny av
the Ould an' wan av the Tyrone to double up the hill an' clane out the
Paythan Reserve. Orf'cers was scarce in thim days, fwhat wid 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.[1] Hah! He was a Man. The Tyrone tuk a
little orf'cer bhoy, but divil a bit was he in command, as I'll
dimonstrate presintly. We an' they came over the brow av the hill, wan
on each side av the gut, an' there was that ondacint Reserve waitin'
down below like rats in a pit.

'"