It was Archie Fettin, lately of the Queen’s Own, but now a “buck” private in Uncle Sam’s service, who aptly said: “Daly, tek off yer bloomin’ ’ed and put it on facin’ t’ the rare and ye’ll hev as foine a brace an’ as smaart ’perance as any non-com ’n the Quane’s Guayards; mesel’, fer example.”
Unfortunately for poor Daly, he could not follow Fettin’s advice, and must content himself with his dromedary “set up.” The company non-commissioned officers were disgusted with him, for the company enjoyed the reputation of being the best drilled in the regiment, but here came this hopeless recruit to muddle the rear rank at parades and walk on the heels of his front rank man. Corporal Self, the meanest martinet in the outfit, drilled him till his tongue was hanging out, and then reported to the captain: “Sir, there’s slight hope fer thet spalpeen o’ a rakroot Daly, fer th’ more sittin’ up ixercise I giv’ ’m th’ bigger th’ lump on ’is schloping shoulders.”
Daly, the newest recruit in the regiment, now “dog-robbing” for “Bues,” and excused from cook’s police, room orderly, guard, fatigue, and, in fact, everything except drill, and he would have been relieved from that had he not been sorely in need of it. The men hated him more cordially than the devil despises a Christian who refuses to black-slide. A man with the slightest hint of spirit would have resented their insults, heaped so lavishly and frequently, but he was as impervious to the names, epithets, growling, and swearing as a duck’s back is to water.
Rising in the morning long before reveille, he noiselessly slipped out of the barracks, always carrying his shoes in his hand till away from the quarters, and then went to Buestom’s house and began his day’s work by building fires, preparing the bath, and assisting in the cuisine. He never ate his meals with the company—always served himself in the kitchen or back yard of his master. Master? Yes; for a more menial slave was never sold from the block.
When nothing else to engage him, he had his orders to take the mangy dog out for a walk—and what a dog! What breed? Just dog—the yellow kind. His comrades always spoke of these walks as “two curs out for a constitutional.” But that same dog was Daly’s only friend, and he no doubt enjoyed his society.
“His comrades always spoke of these walks as ‘two curs out for a constitutional.’”
Then came the great railroad strike, and the tie-up of the mails. The regiment was ordered out to open up the roads. To everybody’s delight, Buestom remained behind to take care of the post; but a greater delight was when Daly asked to go with his company in the field, for now he would get more than his share of duty to make good the work thrown on his comrades while he was excused from everything. The “non-coms” were “laying for him.”
When it came to choosing tent-mates, Daly was left a widow, for even Rassmussen the Swede—“Rouse mit ’em der sweet”—the worst reprobate that ever wore a uniform, refused to pair with him; so he hied himself to the nearest escort wagon and slept under it.
They marched past miles of obstructed railroad track to Patterson, where the switches were crammed full of freight cars and “killed” engines. The work of clearing the tracks went on for many days, till finally they were cleared, and a train made up to take the first mail through that had passed since the strike began. Soldiers were everywhere—on the tops of cars, on the platforms, inside, on the tender; and riding on the cow-catcher, loaded rifles in hand, were Archie Fettin and “Cougar” Daly.