“No!” resumed one of the twain emphatically, apropos of some previous contention, “No, by gum! this division ain’t what it used to be in them days.”

He gave vent to a reminiscent sigh as he spat upon and rubbed up some powdered brick-dust.

“Billy Herchmer was O.C., Fred Bagley was Sergeant-Major—­and there was Harry Hetherington, Ralph Bell, De Barre, Jeb Browne, Pennycuik, and all them old-timers.  Eyah! th’ times that was! th’ times that was!  Force’s all filled up now mostly with ‘Smart Aleck’ kids, like Reddy, here, an’”—­he shot a glance of calculating invitation at his vis-a-vis, Hardy—­“‘old sweats’ from the Old Country Imperials.”

Artfully to start some trivial but decidedly inflammable barrack-room argument was one of Corporal Dave McCullough’s pet diversions.  At this somewhat doubtful pastime he would exhibit a knowledge of human nature and an infinite patience worthy of a better object.  From some occult reasoning of his Celtic soul the psychological moment he generally chose as being likely the most fruitful of results was either a few minutes before, or after “Lights Out.”

When the ensuing conflagration had blazed to the desired stage he would quietly extinguish his own vocal torch and lie back on his cot with a sort of “Mark Antony” “Now let it work!” chuckle.  “Getting their goats” he termed it.  Usually though, when the storm of bad language and boots had subsided, his dupes, too, like those of “Silver Street” were wont to scratch their heads and commune one with another:—­

  —­begod, I wonder why?

He was a heavy-shouldered man; middle-aged, with thick, crisp iron-gray hair and moustache and a pair of humourous brown eyes twinkling in a lined, weather-beaten face.  His slightly nasal voice was dry and penetrating to the point of exasperation.  For many years he had acted as “farrier” to L. Division.

George warily accepted the share of the pleasantry extended to him with a shrug, and a non-committal grin.  But Hardy chose to regard it as a distinct challenge, and therefore a promising bone of contention.  He gloated over it awhile ere pouncing.

A medium-sized, wiry, compactly-built man bodily, Hardy bore lightly the weight of his forty-five years.  His hair was of that uncertain sandy colour which somehow never seems to turn gray; the edges of the crisply-curling forelock being soaped, rolled and brushed up into that approved tonsorial ornament known in barrack-room parlance as a “quiff.”  His complexion was of that peculiar olive-brown shade especially noticeable in most Anglo-Indians.  In his smart, soldierly aspect, biting, jerky Cockney speech and clipped, wax-pointed moustache he betrayed unmistakably the ex-Imperial cavalry-man.

“Old sweats!” he echoed sarcastically—­he pronounced it “aoweld”—­“Yas! you go tell that t’ th’ Marines, me lad! . . .  Took a few o’ th’ sime ‘old sweats’ t’ knock ‘’Ay Leg!’ ‘Straw Leg’ inter some o’ you mossbacks at th’ stort orf.  Gee!  Har! oh, gorblimey, yas!” He illustrated his trenchant remarks in suggestive pantomime.