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“Before execution, ye turkey-cock–before execution is the time to eat and drink. How shall the bloomin’ carnage gore the Libyan sands, if there ain’t no refreshment for the vitals and the diagrams?”

“Come an wid ye to y’r forage-cake, thin-an’ take this to ye,” added Connor slyly, as he slipped a little nickel-plated flask into Billy Bagshot’s hand.

“With a Woking crematory in y’r own throat. See you bloomin’ furder!” answered Billy Bagshot.

“I’m not drinkin’ to-day,” answered Connor, with a curious look in the eye that had no cast. “I’m not drinkin’, you understand.”

“Ain’t it a bit momentary?” asked Bagshot, as they sat down.

“Momentary betimes,” answered Connor evasively. “Are you eatin’ at this bloomin’ swaree, then?”

“I’m niver aff me forage-cake,” answered Connor, and he ate as if he had had his tooth in nothing for a month.

A quarter of an hour later, the Sikhs were passing the Berkshire zeriba, and the Berkshires, filing out, joined them to cut brushwood. A dozen times the Subadar Goordit Singh almost touched shoulders with Connor, but neither spoke, and neither saw directly; for if once they saw each other’s eyes the end might come too soon, to the disgrace of two regiments.

Suddenly, the forbidden song on William Connor and the Subadar arose among the Berkshires. No one knew who started it, but it probably was Billy Bagshot, who had had more than a double portion of drink, and was seized with a desire to celebrate his thanks to Connor thus.

In any case the words ran along the line, and were carried up in a shout amid the crackling of the brushwood:

“Where was the shame of it,
Where was the blame of it,
William Connor dear?”

That sort of special providence which seems to shelter the unworthy, gave India and the Berkshires honour that hour when the barometer registered shame; for never was mercury more stormy than shot up in the artery of two men’s wills when that song rose over the zeriba at Tofrik. They were not fifty feet apart at the time, and at the lilt of that chorus they swung towards each other like two horses to the bugle on parade.

“A guinea to a brown but Janders goes large!” said Billy Bagshot under his breath, his eye on the Subadar and repenting him of the song.

But Janders did not go large; for at that very moment there came the bugle-call for the working parties to get into the zeriba, as from the mimosa scrub came hundreds upon hundreds of “Osnum Digners” hard upon the heels of the vedettes.

“The Hadendowas ‘as the privilege,” said Billy Bagshot, as the Berkshires and the Sikhs swung round and made for the zeriba.

“What’s that ye say?” cried Connor, as the men stood to their arms.

“Looked as if the bloomin’ hontray was with the Subadar, but the Hadendowas ‘as the honour to hinvite sweet William!”

“Murther uv man–look–look, ye Berkshire boar! The Bengals is breakin’ line!”

“Oscillations ‘as begun!” said Bagshot, as, disorganised by the vedettes riding through their flank into the zeriba, the Bengalese wavered.

“‘Tis your turn now–go an to y’r gruel!” said Connor, as Bagshot with his company and others were ordered to move over to the Bengalese and steady them.

“An’ no bloomin’ sugar either,” Bagshot called back as he ran.

“Here’s to ye thin!” shouted Connor, as the enemy poured down on their zeriba on the west and the Bengalese retreated on them from the east, the Billy Bagshot detachment of Berkshires rallying them and firing steadily, the enemy swarming after and stampeding the mules and camels. Over the low bush fence, over the unfinished sand-bag parapet at the southwest salient, spread the shrieking enemy like ants, stabbing and cutting. The Gardner guns, as Connor had said, were “fer the inimy,” but the Lushai dandies were for the men that managed them that day; for the enemy came too soon–in shrieking masses to a hand-to-hand melee.