“It weren't that,” he would say; or, “I weren't bothering—”
“I'm not bothered—”
“Thee needn't bother, but it's a misfortunate thing—”
“Hates me like the divil 'ates Holy Water.”
“Like enough!”
“A pound to a penny!”
“As like as not!”
“Ah; very like.”
These were all typical Hawkish expressions.
His yarns of India out-Rudyard Kipling. They were superb, full of barrack-room touches, and the smells and sounds of the jungle. He told of the time when a soldier could get “jungling leave”; when he could go off with a Winchester and a pal and a native guide for two or three months; when the Government paid so many rupees for a tiger skin, so many for a cobra—a scale of rewards for bringing back the trophies of the jungle wilds.