George, on these occasions, was the recognised organiser, and by herculean efforts had secured some half-dozen recruits to commence loo as soon as old Hanmer returned.
Games of chance—even in the long-ago sixties—were rarely indulged in in the ante-room, which was reserved exclusively for solemn whist for nominal stakes, where the players bottled up trumps, misdealt, and revoked, regardless of all the canons of the game.
“Damn it, sir!” once exclaimed an irate General at an inspection dinner to his trembling partner—the assistant surgeon—“Are you aware that 3,000 shoeless men are tramping the streets of the Continent for not leading trumps?” to which the medico—who was a Kerry man—replied respectfully:
“Oi apalagoise, surr, most humbly; but oi disremembered me abligation.”
“Obligation be d—, sir!” replied the genial old warrior as he lighted a fresh cheroot.
“The Major’s late,” remarked George to a confirmed loo player; “let us go up to my room and get the table ready. Come on,” he continued to four or five others, “we’ll make a start anyhow; he can’t be long.”
The officers’ quarters in the Tower can hardly be described as spacious, and so by the addition of chairs from other rooms; with the table lugged into the centre, and brandy and sodas piled on the bed it was not long before some half-dozen punters were securely wedged together and indulging in unlimited loo for stakes that were not always nominal.
The Major, meanwhile, had joined the party and without divesting himself of either cloak, shako, or sword, dashed into the fray with considerably greater zeal than he had displayed when going the rounds. Not that he was any feather-bed soldier; on the contrary, he had borne his full share of the trenches, and then often found himself told off to march to Balaclava with a fatigue party, and eventually to enjoy a few hours’ sleep in wet clothes on wet ground, whilst blankets and boots were rotting within six miles, and all because brave men were at the front, and old women were at the back of that rickety machine called the War Office.
Billy Hanmer, amid the ordinary walks of life, was of a chilly temperament; the thermometer in his quarters was never permitted to register less than 65 degrees; he wore flannels all the year round, which in winter were duplicated, even to his socks; when he became excited—which never occurred except at loo, or when suddenly called upon to drill the battalion—the three hairs that were usually pasted across his martial skull rose like the crest of a cockatoo, and he was apt to give vent to expressions seldom or never heard at a bishop’s. Swearing in those long-ago days was considered a necessary adjunct to military efficiency, as any one who was under Pennefather when he commanded at Aldershot can testify, and so it was that the Major was now swearing like a trooper. As a fact, he had just been “loo-ed,” and was counting some forty sovereigns into the pool, and every sovereign was accompanied by an oath as unique as it was unavailing.
George Hay, sportsman though he was, was also a bad loser, but this evening, in his capacity as host the Fates had happily protected him. The grilled bones that appeared at 2 a.m., and the inordinate amount of brandy and soda that had been consumed, were all put down to him; but the hundred he had won left ample margin for the hospitality, and towards five our hero fell into a profound and refreshing sleep, periodically enlivened by sweet visions of huge pools that he persistently raked in, whilst Billy Hanmer, divested of cloak, sword, and shako, was swearing till the old rafters rattled.