Hardy chuckled again, "'Ere comes one o' them Mounted Pleecemen, me dear,—orl comb an' spurs,—mark time in front there. . . !" And he emitted an imitation of a barnyard cackle.
McCullough shot a glance at Redmond's face. "Can th' grief" he remarked unsympathetically, "you're fly enough usually . . . but you fairly asked for it that time."
Hardy spat into a cuspidor with long-range accuracy. He beamed with cheerful malevolence awhile upon his tormentors; then, uplifting a cracked falsetto in an unmusical wail, to the tune of "London Bridge is Falling Down," assured them that—
"Old soweljers never die, never die, never die, Old soweljers never—"
With infinite mockery Redmond's boyish voice struck in—
"Young soldiers wish they would, wish they—"
"'Ere!" remonstrated Hardy darkly, "chack it, Reddy! . . . You know wot 'appens t' them as starts in, a-guyin' old soweljers?—eh?—Well, I tell yer now!—worse'n wot 'appened t' them fresh kids in th' Bible wot mocked th' old blowke abaht 'is bald 'ead."
"Isch ga bibble! I don't care!" bawled the abandoned George; "can't be much worse than doing 'straight duty' round Barracks, here!—same thing, day in, day out—go and look at the 'duty detail' board—Regimental Number—Constable Redmond, 'prisoner's escort'—punching gangs of prisoners around all day long, on little rotten jobs about Barracks—and 'night guard' catching you every third night and—"
"Oyez! oyez! oyez! you good men of this—"
"Oh, yes! you can come the funny man all right, Mac—you've got a 'staff' job. Straight duty don't affect you. Why don't they shove me out on detachment again, and give me another chance to do real police work? . . . I tell you I'm fed up—properly. . . . I wish I was out of the blooming Force—I'm not 'wedded' to it, like you."