Tim was quite the most unique of all our motley tribe. He was born in Ireland, educated (or rather remained uneducated) in the Southern States, and for the past ten years had lived in Canada. He was a faithful servant, true to his master and to all his friends. Like many another "original," he was permitted to take liberties which shocked all sense of military discipline, as well as every other sense; but he amused us and was forgiven. He was a prize fighter, too, of no mean ability, and carried the scars of many a hard-fought battle. No other being in the world used a dialect like Tim's. It was a language all his own, and negroid in character.
"Pull wit' Kitch'ner!" he replied disdainfully. "Wit George hisself, ye means. D'ye s'pose my kernel hobnobs wit' anyt'ing lessen royalty? De king sent fer him, an' he goed to Lunnon a' purpose."
"'Wot is yer Majesty's command?' sez de kernel.
"'Kernel,' sez he, 'when I seed yer men on p'rade las' Sunday, I turned to Lord Kitch'ner an' sez: "Kitch'ner, it ain't right t' keep men as good as dat in England; dere place is at de front!"'"
"You was sure needed there," Tim's vis-à-vis interjected sarcastically; "good thick-headed fellers t' stop a bullet."
Tim ignored the remark, and continued:
"So he sez, 'Kernel, yer unit 'ull be de first t' leave fer France, an' good luck t' ye!' Wit dat de kernel comed back, an' now we're goin' to see de Pea-jammers."
"Wot's them?" the other growlingly inquired.
"Don't ye know wot Pea-jammers is yet? Ye muster bin eddicated in night school. Pea-jammers is Frenchmen."
By what process of exclusion Tim had arrived at this strange decision with reference to the French, none but himself knew; and he never by any chance alluded to them otherwise.