Fwat ups an’ down an’ changes there be
E’en in the lives av th’ loikes av me.
Four years ago the fortunes av the House of O’Malley were in the ascendant; today they are shtrictly on th’ wane.”
She threw up her head and smiled gamely in a forlorn sort of way; but the quivering lips belied the careless, inconsequent tones, and he, guessing that the tears were not far from the surface, dimly sensed something of the bitter struggle that that brave heart must have been forced to make at times to keep up appearances in past periods of adversity. With this in his mind, he impulsively held up his hand to the girl, and she, choking back a little sob in her throat, reached out and clasped it warmly in hers.
“Eyah!” he said; “I guess we’ve both had our ups and downs, all right, but there’s one consolation about our respective lots—they might have fallen in worse places, though there’s little real peace in the lives of us who are comparatively poor and have to earn our own livings forever dependent on the whims and fancies of the powers that be, set in authority above us.
“Take the life of the average non-com, or ‘buck,’ in this Force, for instance. It may seem rot to get harping on grievances at such a time and place as this, I know,” (he made a sweeping gesture to the landscape with outflung arm) “but there’s no lasting peace of mind or future in it. People see us patrolling around in a smart uniform, and riding the pick of the country in horseflesh, thinking, I suppose, what a fine time we have of it. They little guess it’s one continual round of worry and trouble. All the way from murder and robbery to settling neighbors’ trivial squabbles over dogging each other’s cattle, paying the cost of divisional fences, and all those kind of petty disturbances. Either that, or being chased around from one detachment to another, though in that respect I must say this Division isn’t as bad as some of ’em. Couldn’t have a better O.C. or Inspectors’n we’ve got in L. As long as you’re onto your job and do your work right, they let you pretty well alone. But it’s the confounded office work that we have to do in addition to our ordinary police duty that we get fed up on. Talk about red tape! This outfit’s sure the home of it! Every report, every little voucher for p’r’aps fifty cents’ expenditure—four, and sometimes five, copies of each. Statistics for this, and statistics for that; monthly returns, mileage reports, and the copy of your daily diary. Oh, Lord! you should just see what we have to get through. Most of us use typewriters, of course, or we’d never make the grade at all. It’s much easier and handier. Guess you saw that one of mine in the detachment.
“Office work or not, though, this job’s away ahead of being stuck in the Post. The daily round of a ‘straight duty buck’ doing prisoners’ escort about Barracks is, without doubt, the most demoralizing existence goin’. The monotony’s something fierce. And a non-com’s isn’t much better, either. Sent out on every little rotten job that turns up, hanging around stables and the orderly-room, always expected to be on hand and within call. Taking charge of grousing fatigue parties, etc. Thank goodness! I never had much of it to do. I was only in the Post a month when I first took on. Been on detachment ever since, barring six weeks I once put in as Acting Provo’ in charge of the guardroom, while Hopgood was sick.”
He rolled another cigarette and, inhaling and expelling a whiff of smoke, continued reflectively: “This is a good outfit—this Force—no doubt about it. I guess as regards its system, discipline, and results, it’s out and away the best Military Police Force in the world—with the exception, p’r’aps, of the Royal Irish Constabulary. Good men take on and serve their time. Some reengage, and some quit. But just as good men take their place and the work goes on. But, as I said before, there’s no rest, or future in it for the average non-com, or buck. You never know when your day’s work’s done.
“No, it’s just one continual round of listening to, and settling other people’s troubles. Seems nonsense, I know, to get talking like this for, after all, it’s only what we’re paid for. Somebody’s got to do it. But there it is—trouble, trouble, trouble, the whole time. All my life, with the exception of the time I deliberately struck into the fighting game, I’ve wanted to live peaceably; but it seems to have been my luck, somehow, to always get the reverse. Especially on this job. No matter how quiet and easy-going you try to rub along there are always some nasty, bullying, ignorant, cunning beggars who, just because you’re a bit decent to them, take it for granted you’re easy and try to impose on you. Anyway, that was my experience on the first two or three detachments I struck. Not on this one, though! Didn’t give ’em a chance. Fellow that was before me, corporal named Williamson—decent head, all right—but he tried that ‘live, and let live’ stunt and it didn’t work a bit. No, sir! They just took advantage of him every turn and corner. Oh, I tell you, Miss O’Malley, it sure was some tough district—this—when I took it over.”
His brows contracted loweringly, and a menacing light gleamed in his deep-set eyes.
“I soaked it to ’em, though, the dirty dogs!” he muttered, with a savage snap of his strong white teeth. “They wanted to be shown.... I’ve sure shown some of ’em, all right. The inside of a ‘Pen’,’ at that. Kept ’em on the high jump ever since. It’s the only way to deal with that class. Treat ’em like the scum they are, and they’ll be good then and eat out of your hand. They’re too ignorant and cunning to appreciate any civility or kindness.”