By A. Byers Fletcher
There was tumultuous cheering in the ranks of the Irish Guards somewhere in France. Sergeant O’Reilly, V. C., had returned to the trenches. Two months before, Private O’Reilly had, with a scorching-hot machine-gun, held, single-handed, an important trench after all his comrades had fallen. Incidentally, he had also saved the life of an officer, who lay wounded and exposed on the parapet of the trench. His was but one of many such brave deeds which occurred almost daily along that terrible front, but O’Reilly’s deed had the advantage of being conspicuous. Hence his two-months’ leave, his journey to London, and his reception at Buckingham Palace, where the King himself pinned the little bronze cross to his khaki jacket. Hence, his public reception in his native village of Tullameelan, where they hung garlands of flowers about his neck, and his old mother wept tears of joyful pride. Hence, too, his return with the sergeant’s stripes. The story of the honours heaped upon him had been duly chronicled and illustrated in the press, and had preceded his return to the trenches. Hence, his joyful reception by the regiment.
Private Finnessy and Private Moloney had been among the first to grasp the hero’s hand, and had joined heartily in the vociferous cheering, but now that affairs had again resumed their normal round, these two companions sat at the bottom of the trench, smoking thoughtfully.
“O’Reilly’s a brave man,” said Finnessy, then added, after a pause, “the lucky devil!”
“I believe ye,” replied Moloney.
“And he only five feet sivin,” continued Finnessy.
“With one punch,” said Moloney, contemplating his hairy fist, “I could lift him into the inemy’s trenches!”
“Do ye mind how all the girls in Tullameelan kissed him?” said Finnessy.
“I know one girl there that didn’t!” said Moloney hotly.
“And I know another!” as hotly replied Finnessy.