"'Enter,' said he, like a bloomin' ould butler. Down I went into the devil's hole. It was a temple lit up with oil. The walls were made of skulls, and the floors had carpets made out of Highlanders' kilts, fusiliers' trousers, artillerymen's pants, and cavalrymen's dongarees. Holy Moses! I shivered like a cat on the tiles. As I got in, [pg 46] a dozen mad fellows commenced to play their pumpkin drums, and sing—"
"'Death to the Sahib,
His blood for our Gods,
Death to the Sahib,
His bones for our rods;
Death to the Sahib,
And then he shall know
The secrets of Rahib
The High Priest below.'
"'Ye dirty ould spalpeen,' ses I, knockin' daylight out of the fellow who'd introduced me to this Madame Tussaud's. But he dodged, and pulling a string, I was enveloped in blue flames, and then tied to an altar in front of the Holy Water."
"Have a drink, Paddy." interjected the captain at this point, to the disgust of the fascinated Spud and spell-bound Militiamen.
Paddy quaffed a pint from the foaming tankard, then resumed: "Yes, they got out their scimitors—knives like the master-cook cuts the rations up with. But before slicing the beef-steaks off me the High Priest offered up a prayer 'for the soul of Sahib Paddy Doolan, of the Dublin Fusiliers, who was to be sliced, fried, and eaten on the altar of Rahib, the High Priest of the Twopenny Tube in the Jungle of Tigers and Panthers.' [pg 47] Next, they did a can-can—a sort of Highland fling—round me.
"'Stop,' ses I, 'I'll never get drunk again,' but they just sung—"
"'Death to the Sahib,
His blood for our Gods.'
"Finally, they sharpened their ould ham knives, and with a wild, wild yell, stuck every one into my ould hairy chest. And then I woke up—in hospital."
"In hospital?" queried the amazed Spud.
"Yes, I was in the D.T.'s (delirium tremens)."