‘A first-class rifle-shot an’ a good little man av your inches you are,’ said Mulvaney.  ’But you niver had a head worth a soft-boiled egg.  ’Tis me has to lie awake av nights schamin’ an’ plottin’ for the three av us.  Orth’ris, me son, ’tis no matther av a few gallons av beer—­no, nor twenty gallons—­but tubs an’ vats an’ firkins in that sedan-chair.  Who ut was, an’ what ut was, an’ how ut got there, we do not know; but I know in my bones that you an’ me an’ Jock wid his sprained thumb will get a fortune thereby.  Lave me alone, an’ let me think.’

Meantime the palanquin stayed in my stall, the key of which was in Mulvaney’s hands.

Pay-day came, and with it beer.  It was not in experience to hope that Mulvaney, dried by four weeks’ drought, would avoid excess.  Next morning he and the palanquin had disappeared.  He had taken the precaution of getting three days’ leave ‘to see a friend on the railway,’ and the colonel, well knowing that the seasonal outburst was near, and hoping it would spend its force beyond the limits of his jurisdiction, cheerfully gave him all he demanded.  At this point Mulvaney’s history, as recorded in the mess-room, stopped.

Ortheris carried it not much further.  ’No, ‘e wasn’t drunk,’ said the little man loyally, ‘the liquor was no more than feelin’ its way round inside of ’im; but ‘e went an’ filled that ‘ole bloomin’ palanquin with bottles ’fore ’e went off.  ‘E’s gone an’ ’ired six men to carry ‘im, an’ I ’ad to ’elp ’im into ’is nupshal couch, ’cause ’e wouldn’t ’ear reason.  ’E’s gone off in ‘is shirt an’ trousies, swearin’ tremenjus—­ gone down the road in the palanquin, wavin’ ‘is legs out o’ windy.’

‘Yes,’ said I, ‘but where?’

’Now you arx me a question.  ’E said ‘e was goin’ to sell that palanquin, but from observations what happened when I was stuffin’ ’im through the door, I fancy ’e’s gone to the new embankment to mock at Dearsley.  ’Soon as Jock’s off duty I’m goin’ there to see if ’e’s safe—­not Mulvaney, but t’other man.  My saints, but I pity ’im as ‘elps Terence out o’ the palanquin when ‘e’s once fair drunk!’

‘He’ll come back without harm,’ I said.

’’Corse ’e will.  On’y question is, what ’ll ‘e be doin’ on the road?  Killing Dearsley, like as not.  ’E shouldn’t ‘a gone without Jock or me.’

Reinforced by Learoyd, Ortheris sought the foreman of the coolie-gang.  Dearsley’s head was still embellished with towels.  Mulvaney, drunk or sober, would have struck no man in that condition, and Dearsley indignantly denied that he would have taken advantage of the intoxicated brave.

‘I had my pick o’ you two,’ he explained to Learoyd, ’and you got my palanquin—­not before I’d made my profit on it.  Why’d I do harm when everything’s settled?  Your man did come here—­drunk as Davy’s sow on a frosty night—­came a-purpose to mock me—­stuck his head out of the door an’ called me a crucified hodman.  I made him drunker, an’ sent him along.  But I never touched him.’