“Ah!” quoth McCullough blithely, “Yu’ know th’ sayin’—­’Old soldier—­old stiff?’ . . .”

His adversary burnished a spur viciously.  “Old pleeceman—­old son of a—­” he retorted with a spiteful grin.  “W’y, my old Kissiwasti here knows more abaht drill’n wot you do.”  He indicated a rather disreputable-looking gray parrot, preening itself in a cage which stood upon a cot nearby.

At the all-familiar sound of its name the bird suddenly ceased its monotonous beak and claw gymnastics for a space, becoming on the instant alertly attentive.  There came a preliminary craning of neck and winking of white-parchment-lidded eyes, and then, in shockingly human fashion it proceeded to give voluble utterance to some startling samples of barrack-room profanity.  Its shrill invective would have awakened the dead.  The whistling, regular snores of the sleeper suddenly wound up with a gasping gurgle; he opened his eyes and, in a strong cereal accent gave vent to a somnolent peevish protest.

“Losh! . . . whot wi’ you fellers bickerin’ an’ yon damn birrd currsin’ I canna sleep! . . . gie th’—­”

But Hardy silenced him with a warning finger.

“Sh-sh!  McSporran!” he hissed in a loud eager whisper, “Jes’ ‘awk t’ im? . . . gort th’ real reg’mental tatch ’as old Kissiwasti! ain’t he?”—­his face shone with simple pride—­“d’ yer ‘ken’ that? sh-sh! listen now! . . .  Yer shud ’ear ’im s’y ‘Oot, mon!’ . . .  ‘Awk t’im up an’ tellin’yer w’y th’ Jocks wear th’ kilts.”

Awhile McSporran listened, but with singular lack of enthusiasm.  Presently, swinging his legs over the side of the cot with a weary sigh, he proceeded to fill his pipe.  He was a thick-set, grey-eyed fair man about thirty, with a stolid, though shrewd, clean-shaven face.

“Best ye stickit tae wha’ ye ca’ ‘English,’ auld mon!” he remarked irritably, “Baith yersel’ an’ yer plurry pairrut. . . .  Ou ay, I ken!—­D’ye ken John Peel?—­”

And, in derision he hummed a few lines of a rather vulgar parody of that ancient song that obtained around Barracks.

“Say, by gad, though! that bird is a fright!” ejaculated George suddenly, “Holy Doodle! just listen to what he said then? . . .  If ever he starts in to hand out tracts like that when the O.C.’s up here inspecting he’ll get invested with the Order of the ‘Neck-Wring’ for usurping his pet privilege.  You’d better let Brankley the quartermaster have him.  He was up here the other day and heard him.  He was tickled to death—­said he’d like to buy him off you, and ’top him off’—­finish his education.”

“Oh, ’e did, did ’e?” growled Hardy mutinously, but with ill-concealed interest, “Well, ‘e ain’t a-goin’ t’ ’ave ’im!” He breathed hard upon a buckle and polished it to his satisfaction.  “Brankley is some connosser I will admit,” he conceded grudgingly, “but Kissiwasti’s got orl th’ ’toppin orf wot’s good fur ’im—­dahn Regina—­’e went through a reg’lar course dahn there—­took ‘is degree, so t’ speak. . . .  I uster tike an’ ’ang ‘is kydge hup in that little gallery in th’ ridin school of a mornin’—­when Inspector Chappell, th’ ridin’ master wos breakin’ in a bunch o’ rookies—­’toppin’ orf,’ wot? . . .”