"How long did William live?" asked Coolin. "He was a good frind to me was Connor, a thrue frind he was to me. How long did the b'y live?"
'E lived long enough to 'ave McNeill shake 'im by the 'and. 'E lived long enough to say to the Subadar Goordit Singh, 'I would take scorn uv me to lave widout askin' y'r pardon, Subadar.' And the Subadar took 'is 'and and salaamed, and showed 'is teeth, which was meant friendly."
"What else did Connor say?" asked Coolin, eagerly. "'E said 'is kit was for you that's spoilin' a good name in the condinsation of the Commissaryat, Coolin." "But what else?" urged Coolin. "Nothin' about a drame at all?"
"Who's talkin' about dreams!" said Bagshot. 'E wasn't no bloomin' poet. 'E was a man. What 'e said 'e said like a man. 'E said 'e'd got word from Mary—which is proper that a man should do when 'e's a-chuckin' of 'is tent-pegs. If 'e ain't got no mother—an' Connor 'adn't 'is wife or 'is sweetheart 'as the honour."
"Oh, blessed God," said Coolin, "I wish I hadn't towld him—I wish I hadn't towld the b'y."
"Told 'im wot?" said Bagshot.
But Coolin of the Commissariat did not answer; his head was on his arms, and his arms were on his knees.
THE FLOWER OF THE FLOCK
"'E was a flower," said Henry Withers of the Sick Horse Depot.
"A floower in front garden!" ironically responded Holgate, the Yorkshire engineer, as he lay on his back on the lower deck of the Osiris, waiting for Fielding Pasha's orders to steam up the river.