Perturbed and utterly mystified at the sordid drama he had witnessed, its
amazing combination of brutality and pathos, George remained rooted to
the spot as one in a dream. Instinctively though, he felt that this was
not the first time of its enactment. Mechanically he watched the door
close; then sounding far off and indistinct, Slavin's hoarse whisper in
his ear brought him down to Mother Earth again with a vengeance:

"Did ye mark him stoop an' 'plant' th' 'hootch?'"

George nodded. "I wasn't quite wise to what he was at," he answered.

"Let us go get ut!" said Sergeant Slavin grimly, marching to the spot, "I
will not have dhrink brought into th' detachment! . . . 'tis against
ordhers."

He bent down, straightened up, and turning to Redmond who had joined him
exhibited a bottle. He held it up to the light of the moon. It appeared
to be about half empty. Extracting the cork, he smelt.

"'Tis whiskey," he murmured simply--much as Mr. Pickwick said: "It is
punch." He made casual examination of the green and gold label.
"'Burke's Oirish,' begob! . . . eyah! a brave ould uniform but"--he
turned a moist eye on his subordinate--"a desp'ritly wounded souldier
that wears ut--betther out av pain. 'Tis an' ould sayin': 'Whin ye meet
th' divil du not turn tail but take um by th' harns.' . . . Bhoy! I
thrust the honest face av yeh--I have tuk tu ye since th' handy lad ye
showt yersilf with that team mix-up th' morn."

Redmond, mollified, grinned shiveringly. "I don't mind a snort,