Then came the Yunkum Sahib, and the Bunkum Sahib, and they spake awhile together.  But I, like unto a Brerra-bit, lay low, and my breath came softly, and they knew not that I watched them as they spake.  And they joked much together, and told each to the other how that the wives of their friends were to them as mice in the sight of the crouching Tabbikat, and that the honour of a man was as sand, that is blown afar by the storm-wind of the desert, which maketh blind the faithful, and stoppeth their mouths.  Such are all of them, Sahib, since I that speak unto you know them for what they are, and thus I set forth the tale that all men may read, and understand. Burra Murra Boko!  Burra Murra Boko!

’"Twas the most ondacint bedivilmint ever I set eyes on, Sorr.  There was I, blandandhering widout”—­

“Pardon me,” I said, “this is rather puzzling.  A moment back you were a Mahajun of Puli, in Marwur, or a Delhi Pathan, or a Wali Dad, or something of that sort, and now you seem to have turned into an Irishman.  Can you tell me how it is done?”

“Whist, ye oncivilised, backslidhering pagin!” said my friend, Private O’RAMMIS, for it was indeed he.  “Hould on there till I’ve tould ye.  Fwhat was I sayin’?  Eyah, eyah, them was the bhoys for the dhrink.  When the sun kem out wid a blink in his oi, an’ the belly-band av his new shoot tied round him, there was PORTERS and ATHUS lyin’ mixed up wid the brandy-kegs, and the houl of the rigimint tearin’ round like all the divils from hell bruk loose.

“Thin I knew there’d be thrubble, for ye must know, Sorr, there was a little orf’cer bhoy cryin’ as tho’ his little heart was breakin’, an’ the Colonel’s wife’s sister, wid her minowderin’ voice—­”

“Look here, O’RAMMIS,” I said, “I don’t like to stop you; but isn’t it just a trifle rash—­I mean,” I added hastily, for I saw him fingering his bayonet, “is it quite as wise as it might be to use up all your materials at once?  Besides, I seem to have met that little Orf’cer bhoy and the Colonel’s wife’s sister before.  I merely mention it as a friend.”

“You let ’im go, Sir,” put in PORTERS, with his cockney accent.  “Lor, Sir, TERENCE knows bloomin’ well wot ‘e’s torkin’ about, an’ wen ‘e’s got a story to tell you know there ain’t one o’ us wot’ll get a bloomin’ word in; or leastways, Hi carn’t.”

“Sitha,” added JOCK ATHUS.  “I never gotten but one story told mysen, and he joomped down my throaat for that.  Let un taalk, Sir, let un taalk.”

“Very well,” I said, producing one of the half-dozen bottles of champagne that I always carried in my coat-tail pockets whenever I went up to the Barracks to visit my friend O’RAMMIS, “very well.  Fire away, TERENCE, and let us have your story.”