ssin'
wid other people's heads; for he's a dhirty fighter is Jock.
Recruities sometime cry, an' sometime they don't know fwhat they do,
an' sometime they are all for cuttin' throats an' such-like dirtiness;
but some men get heavy-dead-dhrunk on the fightin'. This man was. He
was staggerin', an' his eyes were half-shut, an' we cud hear him dhraw
breath twinty yards away. He sees the little orf'cer bhoy, an' comes
up, talkin' thick an' drowsy to himsilf. "Blood the young whelp!" he
sez; "blood the young whelp;" an' wid that he threw up his arms, shpun
roun', an' dropped at our feet, dead as a Paythan, an' there was niver
sign or scratch on him. They said 'twas his heart was rotten, but oh,
'twas a quare thing to see!

'Thin we went to bury our dead, for we wud not lave thim to the
Paythans, an' in movin' among the haythen we nearly lost that little
orf'cer bhoy. He was for givin' wan divil wather and layin' him aisy
against a rock. "Be careful, Sorr," sez I; "a wounded Paythan's worse
than a live wan." My troth, before the words was out of my mouth, the
man on the ground fires at the orf'cer bhoy lanin' over him, an' I saw
the helmit fly. I dropped the butt on the face av the man an' tuk his
pistol. The little orf'cer bhoy turned very white, for the hair av
half his head was singed away.

'"I tould you so, Sorr," sez I; an', afther that, when he wanted to
help a Paythan I stud wid the muzzle contagious to the ear. They dare
not do anythin' but curse. The Tyrone was growlin' like dogs over a
bone that has been taken away too soon, for they had seen their dead
an' they wanted to kill ivry sowl on the ground. Crook tould thim that
he'd blow the hide off any man that misconducted himself; but, seeing
that ut was the first time the Tyrone had iver seen their dead, I do
not wondher they were on the sharp. 'Tis a shameful sight! Whin I
first saw ut I wud niver ha' given quarter to any man not of the
Khaibar--no, nor woman either, for the women used to come out afther
dhark--Auggrh!

'Well, evenshually we buried our dead an' tuk away our wounded, an'
come over the brow av the hills to see the Scotchies an' the Gurkys
taking tay with the Paythans in bucketsfuls. We were a gang av
dissolute ruffians, for the blood had caked the dust, an' the sweat
had cut the cake, an' our bay'nits was hangin' like butchers' steels
betune ur legs, an' most av us were marked one way or another.

'A Staff Orf'cer man, clean as a new rifle, rides