“The O.C.’s orders, Redmond!—­get your kit packed and hold yourself in readiness to pull out on the eleven o’clock West-bound to-morrow.  You’re transferred to the Davidsburg detachment.  I’ll give you your transport-requisition later.”

The storm doors banged behind him, and then, Redmond, not without design, forced himself to saunter slowly—­very slowly—­upstairs again, whistling nonchalantly the while.

Expectant faces greeted him.  “What’s up?” they chorused.  With a fine assumption of indifference he briefly informed them.  McSporran received the news with his customary stolidity, only his gray eyes twinkled and he chuntered something that was totally unintelligible to anyone save himself.  But its effect upon McCullough and Hardy was peculiar, not to say, startling in the extreme.  With brush and burnisher clutched in their respective hands they both turned and gaped upon him fish-eyed for the moment.  Then, as their eyes met, those two worthies seemed to experience a difficulty of articulation.

Dumfounded himself, George looked from one to the other, “What the devil’s wrong with you fools?” he queried irritably.

Thereupon, McCullough, still holding the eyes of the Cockney, gasped out one magical word—­“Yorkey!”

The spell was broken.  “W’y, gorblimey!” said Hardy, “Ain’t that queer?—­that’s jes’ wot I wos a-thinkin’ . . .  Well, Gawd ’elp Sorjint Slavin now!” With which cryptic utterance he resumed his eternal polishing.

“Amen!” responded the farrier piously, “Reddy, here, an’ Yorkey on th’ same detachment. . . .  What th’ one don’t know t’other’ll teach him. . . .  You’d better let ’em have th’ parrot, too.”

McSporran, back on his cot with hands clasped behind his head, gobbled an owlish “Hoot, mon! th’ twa o’ them thegither! . . .  Losh! but that beats a’ . . . but, hoo lang, O Lard? hoo lang?”

From various sources George had picked up the broken ends of many strange rumours relating to the personality and escapades of one Constable Yorke, of the Davidsburg detachment, whom he had never seen as yet.  A hint here, a whisper there, a shrug and a low-voiced jest between the sergeant-major and the quartermaster, overheard one day in the Matter’s store.  To Redmond it seemed as if a veil of mystery had always enveloped the person and doings of this man, Yorke.  The glamour of it now aroused all his latent curiosity.

“Why, what sort of a chap is this Yorke?” he inquired casually.

McCullough, busily burnishing a bit, shrugged deprecatingly and laughed.  Hardy, putting the last touches to his revolver-holster, made answer, George thought, with peculiar reticence.

“Wot, Yorkey? . . . oh, ’e’s a ’oly terror ’e is. . . .  You arst Crampton,” he mumbled—­“arst Taylor—­they wos at Davidsburg wiv ’im.  Slavin’s orl right but Yorkey!”. . .  He looked unutterable things.  “Proper broken down Old Country torff ’e is, too.  ’E’s right there wiv th’ goods at police work, they s’y, but ’e’s sure a bad un to ’ave to live wiv.  Free weeks on’y, Crampton stuck it afore ’e applied for a transfer—­Taylor, ’e on’y stuck it free d’ys.”