camp, an' talk to my ould frinds. 'Tis no manner av use thryin' to
shtop the divilment _now._"

'Wid that I wint out into the camp an' inthrojuced mysilf to ivry man
sober enough to remimber me. I was some wan in the ould days, an' the
bhoys was glad to see me--all excipt Peg Barney wid a eye like a tomata
five days in the bazar, an' a nose to match. They come round me an'
shuk me, an' I tould thim I was in privit employ wid an income av me
own, an' a drrrawin'-room fit to bate the Quane's; an' wid me lies an'
me shtories an' nonsinse gin'rally, I kept 'em quiet in wan way an'
another, knockin' roun' the camp. 'Twas _bad_ even thin whin I was the
Angil av Peace.

'I talked to me ould non-coms--_they_ was sober--an' betune me an'
thim we wore the draf' over into their tents at the proper time. The
little orf'cer bhoy he comes round, decint an' civil-spoken as might
be.

'"Rough quarters, men," sez he, "but you can't look to be as comfortable
as in barricks. We must make the best av things. I've shut my eyes to
a dale av dog's tricks today, an' now there must be no more av ut."

'"No more we will. Come an' have a dhrink, me son," sez Peg Barney,
staggerin' where he stud. Me little orf'cer bhoy kep' his timper.

'"You're a sulky swine, you are," sez Peg Barney, an' at that the men
in the tent began to laugh.

'I tould you me orf'cer bhoy had bowils. He cut Peg Barney as near as
might be on the oi that I'd squshed whin we first met. Peg wint spinnin'