me die!" groaned the huge Yorkshireman, who was feeling the heat acutely, being of fleshly build.
The sleeper under the lantern roused for a moment and raised himself on his elbow.—"Die and be damned then!" he said. "I'm damned and I can't die!"
"Who's that?" I whispered, for the voice was new to me.
"Gentleman born," said Mulvaney; "Corp'ril wan year Sargint nex', Redhot on his C'mission, but dhrinks like a fish. He'll be gone before the cowld weather's here. So!"
He shipped his boot, and with the naked toe just touched the trigger of his Martini. Ortheris misunderstood the movement, and the next instant the Irishman's rifle was dashed aside, while Ortheris stood before him, his eyes blazing with reproof.
"You!" said Ortheris. "My Gawd, you! If it was you, wot would we do?"
"Kape quiet, little man," said Mulvaney, putting him aside, but very gently; "'tis not me, nor will ut be me whoile Dinah Shadd's here. I was but showin' something."
Learoyd, bowed on his bedstead, groaned, and the gentleman ranker sighed in his sleep. Ortheris took Mulvaney's tendered pouch, and we three smoked gravely for a space while the dust-devils danced on the glacis and scoured the red-hot plain without.
"Pop?" said Ortheris, wiping his forehead.
"Don't tantalize wid talkin' av dhrink, or I'll shtuff you into your own breech-block an'—fire you off!" grunted Mulvaney.
Ortheris chuckled, and from a niche in the verandah produced six bottles of gingerade.
"Where did ye get ut, ye Machiavel?" said Mulvaney, "'Tis no bazar pop."
"'Ow do Hi know wot the Orf'cers drink?" answered Ortheris. "Arst the mess-man."
"Ye'll have a Disthrict Coort-martial settin' on ye yet, me son," said Mulvaney, "but"—he opened a bottle—"I will not report ye this time. Fwhat's in the mess-kid is mint for the belly, as they say, 'specially whin that mate is dhrink. Here's
