“Reel reg’mental?” echoed Hardy mincingly, “aowe gorblimey! ’awk t’im? well, wot abaht it?  I’ve done my bit, too!—­in Injia.  See ’ere; look!”

He pulled up the loose duck-pant of his right leg.  On the outside of the hairy, spare but muscular limb, an ugly old dirty-white scar zigzagged from knee to ankle.

“Paythan knife,” he informed them briefly, “but I did th’ blowke in wot give it me.”  He launched into a lurid account of a border hill-scuffle that his regiment had been engaged in relating all its ghastly details with great gusto.  “Cleared me lance-point ten times that d’y,” he remarked laconically.  “Flint was aour Orf’cer Commandin’—­Old ’Doolally Flint’—­’ard old ‘ranker’ ’e wos.  ‘E’d worked us sumphin’ crool that week.  Night marches an’ wot not.  I tell yer that man ’ad no ’eart for men or ‘orses.  An’ you tork ababt bein’ reel reg’mental, Mac! . . . ’e wos a reg’mental old soor if yer like! . . .  Fit to drop we wos—­wot wos left o’ us, an’ th’ bloody sun goin’ down an’ all.  But no! ’e give us no rest—­burial fatigue right away.  Free big trenches we buried aour pore fellers in—­I can see ’em now. . . .”

For some few seconds he ceased polishing his glossy, mahogany-shaded “Sam Browne” belt, and, chin in hand, stared unseeingly straight in front of him.  His audience waited.  “Arterwards!” he cleared his throat, “arterwards—­w’en we’d filled in ‘e made us put th’ trimmin’s on—­line ’em out ‘ead an’ foot wiv big bowlders.  I mind I’d jes kern a-staggerin’ ap wiv a big stowne for th’ ‘ead o’ Number Free trench, but Doolally kep me a-markin time till ’e wos ready.  ’Kem ap a bit, Private ‘Ardy,’ ’e sez, ‘kem ap a bit! you’re aht o’ yer dressin’!’ ’e sez.  ’Arry Wagstaff, as wos in Number Two Squordron ‘e pulls a bit o’ chork aht of ’is pocket, an’ ’e marks on ’is bowlder in big, fat letters ’Lucky soors—­in bed ev’ry night’—­but old Doolally ‘appened to turn rahnd an’ cop ’im at it.  Drum-’ead coort-martial ‘Arry gort for that, an’ drew ten d’ys Number One Field Punishment.  But that wos old Doolally all over . . . yer might s’y ’e ‘adn’t no sense o’ ’umor, that man.  Down country we moves next d’y, for Peshawur, where th’ reg’ment lay.  We’d copped a thunderin’ lot o’ prisoners—­th’ Mullah an’ all.”

“Wha’ d’ye ca’ a Mullah?” queried McSporran, with grave interest.

Hardy, carbine-barrel between knees—­struggled with a “pull-through.”  “Mullah? well, ’e’s a sorter—­sorter ’ead blowke,” he mumbled lamely.

“Kind of High Priest?” ventured George.

The old soldier beamed upon him gratefully, “Ar, that’s wot I meant.  ’E stunk that ‘igh th’ Colonel ’e sez—­”

The storm doors banged below.  “Redmond!—­oh, Redmond!” The great, booming, bass voice rang echoing up the stairway.  Involuntarily they all sprang to an attitude of alert attention.  Rarely did Tom Belcher have to speak twice around Barracks.

“There’s the S.M.!” muttered George.  Aloud he responded “Coming, Sergeant-Major!” And he swung downstairs where a powerfully-built man in a snow and ice-incrusted fur coat awaited him.