"Lissen to them guns barkin'! We're in for it this time, straight!"
Then, turning to the men behind,—
"'Ave you got yer wills made out, you lads? You're a-go'n' to see a scrap presently, an' it ain't a-go'n' to be no flea-bite, I give you my word!"
"Right you are, sergeant! I'm leavin' me razor to 'is Majesty. 'Ope 'e'll tyke the 'int."
"Strike me pink, sergeant! You gettin' cold feet?"
"Less sing 'im, 'I want to go 'ome.' Get 'im to cryin' like a baby."
"W'ere's yer mouth-organ, Ginger?"
"Right-O! Myke it weepy now! Slow march!"
"I—want to go 'ome!
I—want to go 'ome!