‘Sick—­you?’ said the doctor, who had served an unholy apprenticeship to his trade in Tralee poorhouses.  ’You’re only home-sick, and what you call varicose veins come from over-eating.  A little gentle exercise will cure that.’  And later, ’Mulcahy, my man, everybody is allowed to apply for a sick-certificate once.  If he tries it twice we call him by an ugly name.  Go back to your duty, and let’s hear no more of your diseases.’

I am ashamed to say that Horse Egan enjoyed the study of Mulcahy’s soul in those days, and Dan took an equal interest.  Together they would communicate to their corporal all the dark lore of death which is the portion of those who have seen men die.  Egan had the larger experience, but Dan the finer imagination.  Mulcahy shivered when the former spoke of the knife as an intimate acquaintance, or the latter dwelt with loving particularity on the fate of those who, wounded and helpless, had been overlooked by the ambulances, and had fallen into the hands of the Afghan women-folk.

Mulcahy knew that the mutiny, for the present at least, was dead; knew, too, that a change had come over Dan’s usually respectful attitude towards him, and Horse Egan’s laughter and frequent allusions to abortive conspiracies emphasised all that the conspirator had guessed.  The horrible fascination of the death-stories, however, made him seek the men’s society.  He learnt much more than he had bargained for; and in this manner:  It was on the last night before the regiment entrained to the front.  The barracks were stripped of everything movable, and the men were too excited to sleep.  The bare walls gave out a heavy hospital smell of chloride of lime.

‘And what,’ said Mulcahy in an awe-stricken whisper, after some conversation on the eternal subject, ‘are you going to do to me, Dan?’ This might have been the language of an able conspirator conciliating a weak spirit.

‘You’ll see,’ said Dan grimly, turning over in his cot, ’or I rather shud say you’ll not see.’

This was hardly the language of a weak spirit.  Mulcahy shook under the bed-clothes.

‘Be easy with him,’ put in Egan from the next cot.  ’He has got his chanst o’ goin’ clean.  Listen, Mulcahy; all we want is for the good sake of the regiment that you take your death standing up, as a man shud.  There be heaps an’ heaps of enemy—­plenshus heaps.  Go there an’ do all you can and die decent.  You’ll die with a good name there.  ’Tis not a hard thing considerin’.’

Again Mulcahy shivered.

‘An’ how could a man wish to die better than fightin’?’ added Dan consolingly.

‘And if I won’t?’ said the corporal in a dry whisper.

‘There’ll be a dale of smoke,’ returned Dan, sitting up and ticking off the situation on his fingers, ‘sure to be, an’ the noise of the firin’ ‘ll be tremenjus, an’ we’ll be running about up and down, the regiment will.  But we, Horse and I—­we’ll stay by you, Mulcahy, and never let you go.  Maybe there’ll be an accident.’