“‘He will so,’ sez the man, ‘but whose hand is put to the trigger—in the room?’
“‘Who’ll do ut?’ sez Vulmea, lookin’ round, but divil a man answeared. They began to dishpute till Kiss, that was always playin’ Shpoil Five, sez: ‘Thry the kyards!’ Wid that he opined his tunic an’ tuk out the greasy palammers, an’ they all fell in wid the notion.
“‘Deal on!’ sez Vulmea, wid a big rattlin’ oath, ’an’ the Black Curse av Shielygh come to the man that will not do his duty as the kyards say. Amin!’
“‘Black Jack is the masther,’ sez Kiss, dealin’. ‘Black Jack, sorr, I shud expaytiate to you, is the Ace av Shpades which from time immimorial has been intimately connect wid battle, murdher an’ suddin death.
“Wanst Kiss dealt an’ there was no sign, but the men was whoite wid the workin’s av their sowls. Twice Kiss dealt, an’ there was a grey shine on their cheeks like the mess av an egg. Three times Kiss dealt an’ they was blue. ‘Have ye not lost him?’ sez Vulmea, wipin’ the sweat on him; ‘Let’s ha’ done quick!’ ‘Quick ut is,’ sez Kiss t’rowin’ him the kyard; an’ ut fell face up on his knee—Black Jack!
“Thin they all cackled wid laughin’. ‘Duty thrippence,’ sez wan av thim, ‘an’ damned cheap at that price!’ But I cud see they all dhrew a little away from Vulmea an’ lef’ him sittin’ playin’ wid the kyard. Vulmea sez no word for a whoile but licked his lips—cat-ways. Thin he threw up his head an’ made the men swear by ivry oath known to stand by him not alone in the room but at the Coort-martial that was to set on me! He tould off five av the biggest to stretch me on my cot whin the shot was fired, an’ another man he tould off to put out the light, an’ yet another to load my rifle. He wud not do that himself; an’ that was quare, for ’twas but a little thing considerin’.
“Thin they swore over again that they wud not bethray wan another, an’ crep’ out av the grass in diff’rint ways, two by two. A mercy ut was that they did not come on me. I was sick wid fear in the pit av my stummick—sick, sick, sick! Afther they was all gone, I wint back to Canteen an’ called for a quart to put a thought in me. Vulmea was there, dhrinkin’ heavy, an’ politeful to me beyond reason. ‘Fwhat will I do—fwhat will I do?’ thinks I to mesilf whin Vulmea wint away.
“Presintly the Arm’rer Sargint comes in stiffin’ an’ crackin’ on, not pleased wid any wan, bekaze the Martini-Henry bein’ new to the rig’mint in those days we used to play the mischief wid her arrangemints. ’Twas a long time before I cud get out av the way av thryin’ to pull back the back-sight an’ turnin’ her over afther firin’—as if she was a Snider.
“‘Fwhat tailor-men do they give me to work wid?’ sez the Arm’rer Sargint. ‘Here’s Hogan, his nose flat as a table, laid by for a week, an’ ivry Comp’ny sendin’ their arrums in knocked to small shivreens.’
“‘Fwhat’s wrong wid Hogan, Sargint?’ sez I.