ere's your pipe, Sorr. Shmoke her tinderly wid honey-dew, afther
letting the reek av the Canteen plug die away. But 'tis no good,
thanks to you all the same, fillin' my pouch wid your chopped hay.
Canteen baccy's like the Army. It shpoils a man's taste for moilder
things.'

So saying, Mulvaney took up his butterfly-net, and returned to
barracks.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

THE MADNESS OF PRIVATE ORTHERIS

Oh! Where would I be when my froat was dry?
Oh! Where would I be when the bullets fly?
Oh! Where would I be when I come to die?
Why,
Somewheres anigh my chum.
If 'e's liquor 'e'll give me some,
If I'm dyin' 'e'll 'old my 'ead,
An' 'e'll write 'em 'Ome when I'm dead.--
Gawd send us a trusty chum!

_Barrack Room Ballad._

My friends Mulvaney and Ortheris had gone on a shooting expedition for
one day. Learoyd was still in hospital, recovering from fever picked
up in Burma. They sent me an invitation to join them, and were
genuinely pained when I brought beer--almost enough beer to satisfy
two Privates of the Line--and Me.

''Twasn't for that we bid you welkim, Sorr,' said Mulvaney sulkily.
''Twas for the pleasure av your comp'ny.'

Ortheris came to the rescue with--'Well, 'e won't be none the worse
for bringin' liquor with 'im. We ain't a file o' Dooks. We're bloomin'
Tommies, ye cantankris Hirishman; an' 'ere's your very good 'ealth!'

We shot all the forenoon, and killed two pariah-dogs, four green
parrots, sitting, one kite by the burning-ghaut, one snake flying, one
mud-turtle, and eight crows. Game was plentiful. Then we sat down to
tiffin--'bull-mate an' bran bread,' Mulvaney called it--by the side of
the river, and took pot shots at the crocodiles in the intervals of
cutting up the food with our only pocket-knife. Then we drank up all
the beer, and threw the bottles into the water and fired at them.
After that, we eased belts and stretched ourselves on the warm sand
and smoked. We were too lazy to continue shooting.

Ortheris heaved a big sigh, as he lay on his stomach with his head
between his fists. Then he swore quietly into the blue sky.

'Fwhat's that for?' said Mulvaney. 'Have ye not drunk enough?'

'Tott'nim Court Road, an' a gal I fancied there. Wot's the good of
sodgerin'?'

'Orth'ris, me son,' said Mulvaney hastily, ''tis more than likely
you've got throuble in your inside wid the