Soldier stories.

for a space while the dust-devils danced on the glacis and scoured the red-hot plain.'Pop?' said Ortheris, wiping his forehead.'Don't tantalise wid talkin' av dhrink, or I'll shtuff you into your own breech-block an'-fire you off!' grunted Mulvaney.Ortheris chuckled, and from a niche in the veranda produced six bottles of gingerade.'Where did ye get ut, ye Machiavel?' said Mulvaney. ''Tis no bazar pop.'''Ow do Hi know wot the Orf'cers drink?' answered Ortheris. 'Arst the mess-man.''Ye'll have a Disthrict Coort-Martial settin' on ye yet, me son, ' said Mulvaney, 'but'-he opened a bottle-'I will not report ye this time. Fwhat's in the mess-kid is mint for the belly, as they say, 'specially whin that mate is dhrink. Here's luck! A bloody war or a-no, we've got the sickly season. War, thin!'-he waved the innocent 'pop' to the four quarters of heaven. 'Bloody war! North, East, South, an' West! Jock, ye quackin' hayrick, come an' dhrink.'But Learoyd, half mad with the fear of death presaged in the swelling veins of his neck, was begging his Maker to strike him dead, and fighting for more air between his prayers. A second time Ortheris drenched the quivering body with water, and the giant revived.'An' Ah divn't see thot a mon is i' fettle for gooin' on to live; an' Ah divn't see thot there is owt for t' livin' for. Hear now, lads! Ah'm tired-tired. There's nobbut watter i' ma bones. Let me die!'The hollow of the arch gave back Learoyd's broken whisper in a bass boom. Mulvaney looked at me hopelessly, but I remembered how the madness of despair had once fallen upon Ortheris, that weary, weary afternoon in the banks of the Khemi River, and how it had been exorcised by the skilful magician Mulvaney.'Talk, Terence!' I said, 'or we shall have Learoyd slinging loose, and he'll be worse than Ortheris was. Talk! He'll answer to your voice.'Almost before Ortheris had deftly thrown all the rifles of the guard on Mulvaney's bedstead, the Irishman's voice was uplifted as that of one in the middle of a story, and, turning to me, he said: -'In barricks or out of it, as you say, Sorr, an Oirish rig'mint is the divil an' more. 'Tis only fit for a young man wid eddicated fisteses. Oh the crame av disruption is an Oirish rig'mint, an' rippin', tearin', ragin' scattherers in the field av war! My first rig'mint was Oirish-Faynians an' rebils to the heart av their marrow was they, an' 6so they fought for the Widdy betther than most, bein' contrairy-Oirish. They was the Black Tyrone. You've heard av thim, Sorr?'Heard of them! I knew the Black Tyrone for the choicest collection of unmitigated blackguards, dog-stealers, robbers of hen-roosts, assaulters of innocent citizens, and recklessly daring heroes in the Army List. Half Europe and half Asia has had cause to know the Black Tyrone-good luck be with their tattered Colours as Glory has ever been!'They was hot pickils an' ginger! I cut a man's head tu deep wid my belt in the days av my youth, an', afther some circumstances which I will oblitherate, I came to the Ould Rig'mint, bearin' the character av a man wid hands an' feet. But, as I was goin' to tell you, I fell acrost the Black Tyrone agin wan day whin we wanted thim powerful bad. Orth'ris, me son, fwhat was the name av that place where they sint wan comp'ny av us an' wan av the Tyrone roun' a hill an' down again, all for to tache the Paythans something they'd niver learned before? Afther Ghuzni 'twas