"You can't get away from the fact that the whole Campaign is built on the power of the Unionists to corrupt the officers of the Army," said the minister. "Without that the whole thing collapses."
"And so far," chimed in Joe, "A must say it looks as if they were building on a sure foundation."
The Colonel, outwardly gay, was inwardly miserable that his beloved Service should be dragged in the mud.
"What can you say to them?" he groaned to Mr. Trupp.
"Why," said the old surgeon brusquely, "tell em to tell their own rotten Government to govern or get out. Let em hang half a dozen politicians for treason, and shoot the same number of soldiers for sedition—and the thing's done."
And the bitterness of it was that it looked increasingly as if the critics were right.
The Colonel came home one night from a rare visit to London in black despair.
"The British officer never grows up," he complained to his wife. "He's a perfect baby." His long legs writhed themselves into knots, as he sucked at his pipe. "Do you remember that charming little feller Cherry Dugdale, who commanded the Borderers at Umballa?"
"The shikari?—rather."
"He's joined the Ulster Volunteers as a private."