O’Dwyer, the merry Fenian, called next day.

“Give us a dhrink, brother-officers,” said he, “I’m wake wid laughter.”

We asked what had happened.

“Ye know that herrin’-gutted bush-ranger over yonder?  He’d stale the milk out of your tea, he would, be the same token.  Well, last night he got vicious and took a crack at my lines.  I had rayson to suspect he’d be afther tryin’ somethin’ on, so I laid for him.  I planted a certain mule where he could stale it an’ guarded the rest four deep.  Begob, will ye believe me, but he fell into the thrap head-first—­the poor simple divil.”

“But he got your mule,” said Albert Edward, perplexed.

“Shure an’ he did, you bet he did—­he got old Lyddite.”

Albert Edward and I were still puzzled.

“Very high explosive—­hence name,” O’Dwyer explained.

“Dear hearrts,” he went on, “he’s got my stunt mule, my family assassin!  That long-ear has twenty-three casualties to his credit, including a Brigadier.  I have to twitch him to harness him, side-line him to groom him, throw him to clip him, and dhrug him to get him shod.  Perceive the jest now?  Esteemed comrade Monk is afther pinchin’ an infallable packet o’ sudden death, an’ he don’t know it—­yet.”

“What’s the next move?” I inquired.

“I’m going to lave him there.  Mind you I don’t want to lose the old moke altogether, because, to tell the truth, I’m a biteen fond of him now that I know his thricks, but I figure Mr. Monk will be a severely cured character inside a week, an’ return the beastie himself with tears an’ apologies on vellum so long.”

I met O’Dwyer again two days later on the mud track.  He reined up his cob and begged a cigarette.

“Been havin’ the fun o’ the worrld down at the dressin’-station watchin’ Monk’s casualties rollin’ in,” said he.  “Terrible spectacle, ‘nough to make a sthrong man weep.  Mutual friend Monk lookin’ ’bout as genial as a wet hen.  This is goin’ to be a wondherful lesson to him.  See you later.”  He nudged his plump cob and ambled off, whistling merrily.

But it was Monk we saw later.  He wormed his long corpse into “Mon Repos” and sat on Albert Edward’s bed laughing like a tickled hyena.  “Funniest thing on earth,” he spluttered.  “A mule strayed into my lines t’other night and refused to leave.  It was a rotten beast, a holy terror; it could kick a fly off its ears and bite a man in half.  I don’t mind admitting it played battledore and what’s-’is-name with my organisation for a day or two, but out of respect for O’Dwyer, blackguard though he is, I ...”

“Oh, so it was O’Dwyer’s mule?” Albert Edward cut in innocently.