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So we loosed a bloomin’ volley,
An’ we made the beggars cut,
An’ when our pouch was emptied out.
We used the bloomin’ butt,
Ho! My!
Don’t yer come anigh,
When Tommy is a playin’ with the baynit an’ the butt.
–Barrack Room Ballad.

My friend Private Mulvaney told me this, sitting on the parapet of the road to Dagshai, when we were hunting butterflies together. He had theories about the Army, and colored clay pipes perfectly. He said that the young soldier is the best to work with, “on account av the surpassing innocinse av the child.”

“Now, listen!” said Mulvaney, throwing himself full length on the wall in the sun. “I’m a born scutt av the barrick-room! The Army’s mate an’ dhrink to me, bekaze I’m wan av the few that can’t quit ut. I’ve put in sivinteen years, an’ the pipeclay’s in the marrow av me. Av I cud have kept out av wan big dhrink a month, I wud have been a Hon’ry Lift’nint by this time–a nuisince to my betthers, a laughin’-shtock to my equils, an’ a curse to meself. Bein’ fwhat I am, I’m Privit Mulvaney, wid no good-conduc’ pay an’ a devourin’ thirst. Always barrin’ me little frind Bobs Bahadur, I know as much about the Army as most men.”

I said something here.

“Wolseley be shot! Betune you an’ me an’ that butterfly net, he’s a ramblin’, incoherint sort av a divil, wid wan oi on the Quane an’ the Coort, an’ the other on his blessed silf–everlastin’ly playing Saysar an’ Alexandrier rowled into a lump. Now Bobs is a sinsible little man. Wid Bobs an’ a few three-year-olds, I’d swape any army av the earth into a towel, an’ throw it away aftherward. Faith, I’m not jokin’! Tis the bhoys–the raw bhoys–that don’t know fwhat a bullut manes, an’ wudn’t care av they did–that dhu the work. They’re crammed wid bull-mate till they fairly ramps wid good livin’; and thin, av they don’t fight, they blow each other’s hids off. ‘Tis the trut’ I’m tellin’ you. They shud be kept on water an’ rice in the hot weather; but there’d be a mut’ny av ’twas done.

“Did ye iver hear how Privit Mulvaney tuk the town av Lungtungpen? I thought not! ‘Twas the Lift’nint got the credit; but ’twas me planned the schame. A little before I was inviladed from Burma, me an’ four-an’-twenty young wans undher a Lift’nint Brazenose, was ruinin’ our dijeshins thryin’ to catch dacoits. An’ such double-ended divils I niver knew! Tis only a dah an’ a Snider that makes a dacoit, Widout thim, he’s a paceful cultivator, an’ felony for to shoot. We hunted, an’ we hunted, an’ tuk fever an’ elephints now an’ again; but no dacoits, Evenshually, we puckarowed wan man, ‘Trate him tinderly,’ sez the Lift’nint. So I tuk him away into the jungle, wid the Burmese Interprut’r an’ my clanin’-rod. Sez I to the man, ‘My paceful squireen,’ sez I, ‘you shquot on your hunkers an’ dimonstrate to my frind here, where your frinds are whin they’re at home?’ Wid that I introjuced him to the clanin’-rod, an’ he comminst to jabber; the Interprut’r interprutin’ in betweens, an’ me helpin’ the Intilligince Departmint wid my clanin’-rod whin the man misremimbered.

“Prisintly, I learn that, acrost the river, about nine miles away, was a town just dhrippin’ wid dahs, an’ bohs an’ arrows, an’ dacoits, and elephints, an’ jingles. ‘Good!’ sez I; ‘this office will now close!’

“That night, I went to the Lift’nint an’ communicates my information. I never thought much of Lift’nint Brazenose till that night. He was shtiff wid books an’ theouries, an’ all manner av thrimmin’s no manner av use. ‘Town did ye say?’ sez he. ‘Accordin’ to the theouries av War, we shud wait for reinforcemints.’–‘Faith!’ thinks I, ‘we’d betther dig our graves thin;’ for the nearest throops was up to their shtocks in the marshes out Mimbu way. ‘But,’ says the Lift’nint, ‘since ’tis a speshil case, I’ll make an excepshin. We’ll visit this Lungtungpen to-night.’