I
started the ball rolling in my own company and in about a minute there
were fifty men around me all jabbering like magpies as to the result of
this awful massacre. Of course, the regiment would be hurried north
forthwith--no other regiment could do the work of annihilation so well
as the 18th. Oh! no. Of course not!
Said my erstwhile friend and bunkie "Hickey" Flynn: "Av coorse, Moiles
will be after sendin' a message to Lazelle to bring the Ateenth fut up
at once, and thin the smashin' we will be after givin' them rid divils
will make a wake look sick."
"Aw cum off, Hickey," said Sullivan, "phat the divil does yez know av
foightin' injuns? Phat were ye over in the auld sod? Nathin' but a turf
digger. Phat were ye here before ye 'listed? Dom ye, I think ye belong
to the Clan na Gael and helped to murther poor Doc Cronin, bad cess to
ye."
A display of authority on the part of the top sergeant prevented a clash
and the jaw-breaking contest proceeded. By this time the news had spread
and the entire garrison were talking. Just as I was about to tell them
that it was a fake pure and simple, I happened to glance towards my
office, and Holy Smoke! there was my captain standing on his tiptoes (he
was only five feet four) reading that confounded bulletin.
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