“Now it happened that he’d lift the door o’ the little room open, an’ I could see a bit o’ a garden through the window.  ’What’s the shtuff growin’ out there,’ says I, ’wid the dark red leaves to it, or maybe ye’d call thim purple?’

“‘That’s beet,’ says he with a kind of a groan.

“‘Beet,’ says I.  ‘An’ isn’t beet a red kind of a thing an’ mighty full o’ juice?’

“‘It is that,’ says he, wid the eyes of him almost out o’ his head.

“‘Then how would it be,’ says I, ’to touch up the white wine wid some o’ that same juice?’

“‘The thought was in me mind, God help me,’ says he, an’ wid that he sat up on the counther forninst me, an’ we shtared into the garden like two men in a play.

“‘Would it make the wine cloudy?’ says I.

“‘I could filter it so’s it’d come as clear as sunshine,’ says he.

“‘An’ how would it be for taste?’ says I.

“Achille put a hand on me arm an’ I could feel him shakin’ like a man wid the ague.

“‘Heaven forgive me,’ says he, ‘but ye might say it was the wine o’ the counthry, an’ that taste was the mark of it.’  ’Tis my belief he was near cryin’, for he was an honest man, an’ ’twas for me he was lowerin’ himself to deceit.”

“You were a nice pair,” I said.

“’Twas a beautiful schame,” O’Reilly went on.  “I was niver concerned in a betther.”

“Did it come off?” I asked.

“To a turn,” said O’Reilly.  “We was docthorin’ that blissed wine for the best part o’ the day, an’ I tuk back a dozen bottles to camp.  The O.C. was hangin’ round, as anxious as a dog for his master.

“‘Have ye the wine, O’Reilly?’ says he.

“‘I have, sorr,’ says I; ’but I’d be glad if ye’d ask me no questions about it.’

“‘Not for the world,’ says he, givin’ me a queer look, an’ was off like a mountain hare.”

“Did the General recover?” I asked.

“That wine made a new man of him.  He praised the Rig’mint up to the heighths.  We was the pink o’ the Army, bedad!  The throuble was he wanted to know where he’d get more o’ that same wine.

“‘There’s no more to be had,’ says I to the O.C., for I was done wid the job.

“‘He says it has a powerful bouquet,’ says the O.C.

“‘That may be,’ says I, ’but he’ll niver taste the like of it agin.  ‘Twas an ould wine o’ the counthry, an’ there’s niver been the match of it before or since.’

“‘Couldn’t it be managed annyhow?’ says the O.C.

“‘Not for all the Gin’rals in the British army,’ says I.  ’Twas for the love o’ the Rig’mint I got that wine, an’ I ‘m done wid the job.’”

“Is that the end?” I asked.

“Barrin’ this,” said O’Reilly.  And he produced from his pocket a silver cigarette case, inside which was engraved, “To Sergeant Dennis O’Reilly, who saved the situation, October 15th, 1917.”

* * * * *