The victim had not time to be resentful, but, wiping his eye with the back of the brush, went on polishing his boot-tops vindictively.
"Lick, spit and polish," laughed the Blackguard. "Every day has its dog; but I'm a free nigger to-morrow. No more parades, no more pack-drill, no more guards, no more cells, no more 'fatigues' save this bed-fatigue, which suits my temperament. I'm a free wolf, and it's my night to howl; I come from Bitter Creek—the higher up the worse the waters—and I'm from the source. Go it, you pigeon-livered shave-tails; clean your harness, you poor-souled recruities, you pemmican-eaters, you ravenous pie-biters, you ring-tailed snorters. This is my song of victory after five years without beer—five years h—l without benefit of clergy, five years everybody's dog on Government rations!
"The Blackguard was taken young and raised on hard tack, was full of skilly, beans, and sow-belly; sweated on parade, rode hell-for-leather after horse-thieves; but now he's going to have a good time being alive, and don't you forget it!"
By this time missiles were flying at him from all directions, but the Blackguard wriggled away, rolled out under the flap of the tent, and went off to chaff Dandy Irvine.
"Look here, Dandy," he burst into the next tent, but his chum was not there.
"Not there. Lord, how I shall miss him," thought the Blackguard, strolling miserably towards the river. "Ah, there he is, sitting just where we sat the night before I turned good. What a fool I was to do it."
He sat down beside the little Corporal.
"Did the Colonel give you a letter for me?"
"Yes—here it is. You have two weeks' leave from to-night."
La Mancha told him all that the Colonel had said.