'The men wint back into the tents like jackals, an' the rest av the
night there was no noise at all excipt the stip av the sintry over the
two, an' Scrub Greene blubberin' like a child. 'Twas a chilly night,
an' faith, ut sobered Peg Barney.

'Just before Revelly, my orf'cer bhoy comes out an' sez: "Loose those
men an' send thim to their tents!" Scrub Greene wint away widout a
word, but Peg Barney, stiff wid the cowld, stud like a sheep, thryin'
to make his orf'cer understhand he was sorry for playin' the goat.

'There was no tucker in the draf' whin ut fell in for the march, an'
divil a wurrd about "illegality" cud I hear.

'I wint to the ould Colour Sargint and I sez:--"Let me die in glory,"
sez I. "I've seen a man this day!"

'"A man he is," sez ould Hother; "the draf's as sick as a herrin'.
They'll all go down to the sea like lambs. That bhoy has the bowils
av a cantonmint av Gin'rals."

'"Amin," sez I, "an' good luck go wid him, wheriver he be, by land or
by sea. Let me know how the draf gets clear."

'An' do you know how they _did?_ That bhoy, so I was tould by letter
from Bombay, bullydamned 'em down to the dock, till they cudn't call
their sowls their own. From the time they left me oi till they was
'tween decks, not wan av thim was more than dacintly dhrunk. An', by
the Holy Articles av War, whin they wint aboard they cheered him till
they cudn't spake, an' _that_, mark you, has not come about wid a draf