“Come an wid ye to y’r forage-cake, thin-an’ take this to ye,” added Connor slyly, as he slipped a little nickel-plated flask into Billy Bagshot’s hand.
“With a Woking crematory in y’r own throat. See you bloomin’ furder!” answered Billy Bagshot.
“I’m not drinkin’ to-day,” answered Connor, with a curious look in the eye that had no cast. “I’m not drinkin’, you understand.”
“Ain’t it a bit momentary?” asked Bagshot, as they sat down.
“Momentary betimes,” answered Connor evasively. “Are you eatin’ at this bloomin’ swaree, then?”
“I’m niver aff me forage-cake,” answered Connor, and he ate as if he had had his tooth in nothing for a month.
A quarter of an hour later, the Sikhs were passing the Berkshire zeriba, and the Berkshires, filing out, joined them to cut brushwood. A dozen times the Subadar Goordit Singh almost touched shoulders with Connor, but neither spoke, and neither saw directly; for if once they saw each other’s eyes the end might come too soon, to the disgrace of two regiments.
Suddenly, the forbidden song on William Connor and the Subadar arose among the Berkshires. No one knew who started it, but it probably was Billy Bagshot, who had had more than a double portion of drink, and was seized with a desire to celebrate his thanks to Connor thus.
In any case the words ran along the line, and were carried up in a shout amid the crackling of the brushwood:
“Where was the shame of it,
Where was the blame of it,
William Connor dear?”