"You're a liar, Tamson," answered M'Ginty.
"Silence, you red-haired, spud-bred Irishman. I'll do all the talking here," roared Cursem, his whiskers sticking out like needles and his eyes blazing with anger. "Now, no more nonsense. By the right—quick march. I'll sweat you to death, and [pg 26] make your shirts stick to your back like glue. About turn—keep your eyes off the colonel's cook—she's married and got a family. Right form—come round now—steady—forward—by the right. That's better. Squad—right turn—leave the canteen clock alone—it's not twelve yet, and there's no free beer. Come along, Muldoon,—step out—you get a loaf of bread and a pound of beef to do it on. Halt! Now you can talk about your Mary Ann's," concluded Cursem, after the first spasm. But the rookies had no wind left to talk. They were content to gasp and study in silence the mountainous personality of Sergeant Cursem.
It was also during the minutes at ease that the sergeant discovered the callings and antecedents of his men.
"What do you outside?" he inquired of the pimple-nosed M'Ginty.
"Everybody, sarjint," replied this sharp imp of the streets.
"I thought you were a burglar. And, Muldoon, what's your calling?"
"Gravel crusher, sergint?"
"Umph! What's that?"
"Road merchant and milestone counter."
[pg 27] "You're a tinker, eh?"