‘An’ then,’ continued Horse Egan, for the peppery Major’s peculiarities of speech and manner were as well known as his tanned face; ‘ “an’ then, ye dissolute, half-baked, putty-faced scum o’ Connemara, if I find a man so much as lookin’ confused, begad, I’ll coort-martial the whole company. A man that can’t get over his liquor in six hours is not fit to belong to the Mavericks!” ’

A shout of laughter bore witness to the truth of the sketch.

‘It’s pretty to think of,’ said the Kerry man slowly. ‘Mulcahy would have us do all the devilmint, and get clear himself, someways. He wudn’t be takin’ all this fool’s throuble in shpoilin’ the reputation of the regiment—’

‘Reputation of your grandmother’s pig!’ said Dan.

‘Well, an’ he had a good reputation tu; so it’s all right. Mulcahy must see his way to clear out behind him, or he’d not ha’ come so far, talkin’ powers of darkness.’

‘Did you hear anything of a regimental courtmartial among the Black Boneens, these days? Half a company of ’em took one of the new draft an’ hanged him by his arms with a tent-rope from a third story verandah. They gave no reason for so doin’, but he was half dead. I’m thinking that the Boneens are short-sighted. It was a friend of Mulcahy’s, or a man in the same trade. They’d a deal better ha’ taken his beer,’ returned Dan reflectively.

‘Better still ha’ handed him up to the colonel,’ said Horse Egan, ‘onless—but sure the news wud be all over the counthry an’ give the reg’ment a bad name.’

‘An’ there’d be no reward for that man—he but went about talkin’,’ said the Kerry man artlessly.

‘You speak by your breed,’ said Dan with a laugh. ‘There was never a Kerry man yet that wudn’t sell his brother for a pipe o’ tobacco an’ a pat on the back from a p’liceman.’

‘Praise God I’m not a bloomin’ Orangeman,’ was the answer.

‘No, nor never will be,’ said Dan. ‘They breed men in Ulster. Would you like to thry the taste of one?’

The Kerry man looked and longed, but fore-bore. The odds of battle were too great.

‘Then you’ll not even give Mulcahy a—a strike for his money,’ said the voice of Horse Egan, who regarded what he called ‘trouble’ of any kind as the pinnacle of felicity.

Dan answered not at all, but crept on tip-toe, with large strides, to the mess-room, the men following. The room was empty. In a corner, cased like the King of Dahomey’s state umbrella, stood the regimental colours. Dan lifted them tenderly and unrolled in the light of the candles the record of the Mavericks—tattered, worn, and hacked. The white satin was darkened everywhere with big brown stains, the gold threads on the crowned harp were frayed and discoloured, and the Red Bull, the totem of the Mavericks, was coffee-hued. The stiff, embroidered folds, whose price is human life, rustled down slowly. The Mavericks keep their colours long and guard them very sacredly.

‘Vittoria, Salamanca, Toulouse, Waterloo, Moodkee, Ferozshah, an’ Sobraon—that was fought close next door here, against the very beggars he wants us to join. Inkermann, The Alma, Sebastopol! What are those little businesses compared to the campaigns of General Mulcahy? The Mut’ny, think o’ that; the Mut’ny an’ some dirty little matters in Afghanistan; an’ for that an’ these an’ those’—Dan pointed to the names of glorious battles—‘that Yankee man with the partin’ in his hair comes an’ says as easy as “have a drink.” … Holy Moses, there’s the captain!’

But it was the mess-sergeant who came in just as the men clattered out, and found the colours uncased.