your presince, Sorr, outragis sick bekaze I had dhrunk heavy that day.

'Well an' far out av harm was a Sargint av the Tyrone sittin' on the
little orf'cer bhoy who had stopped Crook from rowlin' the rocks. Oh,
he was a beautiful bhoy, an' the long black curses was slidin' out av
his innocint mouth like mornin'-jew from a rose!

'"Fwhat have you got there?" sez I to the Sargint.

'"Wan av Her Majesty's bantams wid his spurs up," sez he. "He's goin'
to Coort-martial me."

'"Let me go!" sez the little orf'cer bhoy. "Let me go and command my
men!" manin' thereby the Black Tyrone which was beyond any command--ay,
even av they had made the Divil a Field-orf'cer.

'"His father howlds my mother's cow-feed in Clonmel," sez the man that
was sittin' on him. "Will I go back to _his_ mother an' tell her that
I've let him throw himself away? Lie still, ye little pinch av dynamite,
an' Coort-martial me aftherwards."

"Good," sez I; "'tis the likes av him makes the likes av the
Commandher-in-Chief, but we must presarve thim. Fwhat d'you want to
do, Sorr?" sez I, very politeful.

'"Kill the beggars--kill the beggars!" he shqueaks; his big blue eyes
brimmin' wid tears.

'"An' how'll ye do that?" sez I. "You've shquibbed off your revolver
like a child wid a cracker; you can make no play wid that fine large