THE GOD FROM THE MACHINE.
Hit a man an' help a woman, an' ye can't be far wrong anyways.—
Maxims of Private Mulvaney.
THE Inexpressibles gave a ball. They borrowed a seven pounder from the Gunners, and wreathed it with laurels, and made the dancing-floor plateglass, and provided a supper the like of which had never been eaten before, and set two sentries at the door of the room to hold the trays of programme-cards. My friend Private Mulvaney was one of the sentries, because he was the tallest man in the regiment. When the dance was fairly started the sentries were released, and Private Mulvaney fled to curry favour with the Mess Sergeant in charge of the supper. Whether the Mess Sergeant gave or Mulvaney took, I cannot say. All that I am certain of is that, at supper-time, I found Mulvaney with Private Ortheris, two-thirds of a ham, a loaf of bread, half a pâté-de-foie-gras and two magnums of champagne, sitting on the roof of my carriage. As I came up I heard him saying:—
"Praise be a danst doesn't come as often as Ord'ly-room, or, by this an' that, Orth'ris, me son, I wud be the dishgrace av the rig'mint instid av the brightest jool in uts crown".
"Hand the Colonel's pet noosince," said Ortheris, who was a Londoner. "But wot makes you curse your rations? This 'ere fizzy stuff's good enough."
" Stuff, ye oncivilised pagin! 'Tis champagne we're dhrinkin' now. 'Tisn't that I am set agin. 'Tis this quare stuff wid the little bits av black leather in it. I misdoubt I will be distressin'ly sick wid it in the mornin'. Fwhat is ut?"
"Goose liver," I said, climbing on the top of the carriage,
