“‘Ya-as, yer would!’ says I, t’umbin’ me nose to’m. ‘Catch nawthin’! Youse couldn’t catch a cooky at a cake-walk!’
“‘I’ll give yer jus’ t’irty secon’s to clear out in,’ says Hickey, gettin’ kind o’ looney, ’cause de squad was snickerin’ again, ‘an’ if y’aint disappeared by dat time, I’ll collar yer, an’ roll yer up into a small an’ bloody bundle, an’ stuff yer inter me haversack for safe keepin’.’
“‘Huh! w’at youse say cuts no ice wid me!’ says I, scornful. ‘It’s clean nutty dat youse are. See? Holdin’ down a slab in de morgue’s all youse c’n do graceful. Sure!’
“Dat was jus’ a little bit more’n Hickey was prepared to stan’. ‘Here, hang on to me rifle,’ says he, handin’ it over to de neares’ man o’ de squad, ‘an’ watch me capture de firs’ prisoner o’ de campaign.’ An’ wid dat he gives a proud leer, an’ makes a break for me.
“‘Some o’ youse hol’ de watch on us,’ I sings out. ‘Dis is for de amachoor sprintin’ rekid!’ An’ off I starts for de brush, towin’ me victim along behin’ me.
“Oh, ’twas hot stuff! At firs’ I was ’fraid dat some of his officers would catch onto’m an’ call’m back; but de smoke was driftin’ off our way, an’ we was travellin’ away from de flank o’ de battalion, an’ so nobody paid no ’tention to us ’cept a few o’ de boys down at dat end.
“Well, I kep’ humpin’ for all I was wort’, an’ Hickey, he was after me for all he was wort’, an’ fin’lly we strikes cover at ’bout de same time. I makes a flyin’ dive inter de bushes, like a rabbit wid de shakin’ jim-jams, an’ Hickey shoots’mself in after me—an’ lands up against de muzzle o’ Jonesey’s rifle!”
“‘Halt!’ sings out Jonesey, ‘an’ surrender, you red-handed cut-t’roat!’ An’ Hickey halts—prompt, too. But ‘stead o’ surrenderin’, he turned an’ started to take a travel back for de open. An’ jus’ den Schultz, he rose up out’n de eart’ on de one side of’m, an’ McKenzie, he surrounded ’m on de odder side, an’ den poor Hickey seen dat his goose was cooked.
“‘T’row’m down, boys,’ I says. An’ dey t’run’m down, an’ de place w’ere dey happened to t’run’m was boggy, so’s dat w’en he rose up he looked like he hadn’t shooken hands wid a piece o’ soap for more’n a mont’.
“‘Boys, it’s me sorrerful dooty,’ I says, ‘to tell yer dat Hickey’s drinkin’ again.’ An’ den I tol’m w’at he’d said ’bout capturin’ me an’ drinkin’ me blood. An’ dey was astonished an’ shocked.