“‘Saints stand betune us an’ evil!’
sez Bragin, crossin’ himself; ’that’s
Flahy av the Tyrone.’
“‘Who was he?’ I sez, ‘for
he has given me a dale av fightin’ this day.’
“Bragin tould us that Flahy was a Corp’ril
who lost his wife av cholera in those quarters three
years gone, an’ wint mad, an’ walked
afther they buried him, huntin’ for her.
“‘Well,’ sez I to Bragin, ‘he’s
been hookin’ out av Purgathory to kape company
wid Mrs. Bragin ivry evenin’ for the last fortnight.
You may tell Mrs. Quinn, wid my love, for I know that
she’s been talkin’ to you, an’ you’ve
been listenin’, that she ought to ondherstand
the differ ’twixt a man an’ a ghost.
She’s had three husbands,’ sez I, ‘an’
you’ve, got a wife too good for you.
Instid av which you lave her to be boddered by ghosts
an’—an’ all manner av evil spirruts.
I’ll niver go talkin’ in the way av politeness
to a man’s wife again. Good-night to you
both,’ sez I; an’ wid that I wint away,
havin’ fought wid woman, man and Divil all in
the heart av an hour. By the same token I gave
Father Victor wan rupee to say a mass for Flahy’s
soul, me havin’ discommoded him by shticking
my fist into his systim.”
“Your ideas of politeness seem rather large,
Mulvaney,” I said.
“That’s as you look at ut,” said
Mulvaney, calmly; “Annie Bragin niver cared
for me. For all that, I did not want to leave
anything behin’ me that Bragin could take hould
av to be angry wid her about—whin an honust
wurrd cud ha’ cleared all up. There’s
nothing like opin-speakin’. Orth’ris,
ye scutt, let me put me oi to that bottle, for my throat’s
as dhry as whin I thought I wud get a kiss from Annie
Bragin. An’ that’s fourteen years
gone! Eyah! Cork’s own city an’
the blue sky above ut—an’ the times
that was—the times that was!”
An’ when the war began, we chased
the bold Afghan, An’ we made the bloomin’
Ghazi for to flee, boys O! An’ we marched
into Kabul, an’ we tuk the Balar ’Issar
An’ we taught ’em to respec’ the
British Soldier. Barrack Room Ballad.
Mulvaney, Ortheris and Learoyd are Privates in B Company
of a Line Regiment, and personal friends of mine.
Collectively I think, but am not certain, they are
the worst men in the regiment so far as genial blackguardism
goes.
They told me this story, in the Umballa Refreshment
Room while we were waiting for an up-train. I
supplied the beer. The tale was cheap at a gallon
and a half.
All men know Lord Benira Trig. He Is a Duke,
or an Earl, or something unofficial; also a Peer;
also a Globe-trotter. On all three counts, as
Ortheris says, “’e didn’t deserve
no consideration.” He was out in India
for three months collecting materials for a book on
“Our Eastern Impedimenta,” and quartering
himself upon everybody, like a Cossack in evening-dress.
His particular vice—because he was a Radical,
men said—was having garrisons turned out
for his inspection. He would then dine with the
Officer Commanding, and insult him, across the Mess
table, about the appearance of the troops. That
was Benira’s way.
