“‘A dog,’ says Vulmea. ‘You’re a nice hand to this job! As I said, Mulvaney will take the blame—av ut comes to a pinch.’
“‘’Tis harrd to swear a man’s life away,’ sez a young wan.
“‘Thank ye for that,’ thinks I. ‘Now, fwhat the divil are you paragins conthrivin’ against me?’
“‘’Tis as easy as dhrinkin’ your quart,’ sez Vulmea. ‘At seven or thereon, O’Hara will come acrost to the Married Quarters, goin’ to call on Slimmy’s wife, the swine! Wan av us’ll pass the wurrd to the room an’ we shtart the divil an’ all av a shine—laughin’ an’ crackin’ on an’ t’rowin’ our boots about. Thin O’Hara will come to give us the ordher to be quiet, the more by token bekaze the room-lamp will be knocked over in the larkin’. He will take the straight road to the ind door where there’s the lamp in the veranda, an’ that’ll bring him clear against the light as he shtands. He will not be able to look into the dhark. Wan av us will loose off, an’ a close shot ut will be, an’ shame to the man that misses. ‘Twill be Mulvaney’s rifle, she that that is at the head av the rack—there’s no mistakin’ long-shtocked, cross-eyed bitch even in the dhark.’
“The thief misnamed my ould firin’-piece out av jealousy—I was pershuaded av that—an’ ut made me more angry than all.
“But Vulmea goes on: ‘O’Hara will dhrop, an’ by the time the light’s lit again, there’ll be some six av us on the chest av Mulvaney, cryin’ murdher an’ rape. Mulvaney’s cot is near the ind door, an’ the shmokin’ rifle will be lyin’ undher him whin we’ve knocked him over. We know, an’ all the rig’mint knows, that Mulvaney has given O’Hara more lip than any man av us. Will there be any doubt at the Coort-martial? Wud twelve honust sodger-bhoys swear away the life av a dear, quiet, swate-timpered man such as is Mulvaney—wid his line av pipe-clay roun’ his cot, threatenin’ us wid murdher av we overshtepped ut, as we can truthful testify?’
“‘Mary, Mother av Mercy!’ thinks I to mesilf; ‘it is this to have an unruly number an’ fistes fit to use! Oh the sneakin’ hounds!’
“The big dhrops ran down my face, for I was wake wid the liquor an’ had not the full av my wits about me. I laid shtill an’ heard thim workin’ themselves up to swear my life by tellin’ tales av ivry time I had put my mark on wan or another; an’ my faith, they was few that was not so dishtinguished. ’Twas all in the way av fair fight, though, for niver did I raise my hand excipt whin they had provoked me to ut.
“’Tis all well,’ sez wan av thim, ‘but who’s to do this shootin’?’
“‘Fwhat matther?’ sez Vulmea. ’Tis Mulvaney will do that—at the Coort-martial.’