“‘E lived long enough to ‘ave McNeill shake ‘im by the ‘and. ‘E lived long enough to say to the Subadar Goordit Singh, ‘I would take scorn uv me to lave widout askin’ y’r pardon, Subadar.’ And the Subadar took ‘is ‘and and salaamed, and showed ‘is teeth, which was meant friendly.” “What else did Connor say?” asked Coolin, eagerly. “‘E said ‘is kit was for you that’s spoilin’ a good name in the condinsation of the Commissaryat, Coolin.” “But what else?” urged Coolin. “Nothin’ about a drame at all?” “Who’s talkin’ about dreams!” said Bagshot. “‘E wasn’t no bloomin’ poet. ‘E was a man. What ‘e said ‘e said like a man. ‘E said ‘e’d got word from Mary--which is proper that a man should do when ‘e’s a-chuckin’ of ‘is tent-pegs. If ‘e ain’t got no mother--an’ Connor ‘adn’t ‘is wife or ‘is sweetheart ‘as the honour.” “Oh, blessed God,” said Coolin, “I wish I hadn’t towld him--I wish I hadn’t towld the b’y.” “Told ‘im wot?” said Bagshot. But Coolin of the Commissariat did not answer; his head was on his arms, and his arms were on his knees. THE FLOWER OF THE FLOCK “‘E was a flower,” said Henry Withers of the Sick Horse Depot. “A floower in front garden!” ironically responded Holgate, the Yorkshire engineer, as he lay on his back on the lower deck of the Osiris, waiting for Fielding Pasha’s orders to steam up the river. “‘E was the bloomin’ flower of the flock,” said Henry Withers, with a cross between a yawn and a sigh, and refusing to notice Holgate’s sarcasm. “Aw’ve heerd on ‘em, the floowers o’ the flock--they coom to a bad end mostwise in Yorkshire--nipped in t’ bood loike! Was tha friend nipped untimely?” “I’d give a bloomin’ camomile to know!” “Deserted or summat?” “Ow yus, ‘e deserted--to Khartoum,” answered Withers with a sneer. “The ‘owlin’ sneak went in ‘idin’ with Gordon at Khartoum!” “Aye, aw’ve heerd o’ Gordon a bit,” said Holgate dubiously, intent to further anger the Beetle, as Henry Withers was called. “Ow yus, ow verily yus! An’ y’ve ‘eard o’ Julius Caesar, an’ Nebucha’nezzar, an’ Florence Noightingyle, ‘aven’t you--you wich is chiefly bellyband and gullet.” “Aye, aw’ve eaten too mooch to-day,” rejoined Holgate placidly, refusing to see insult. “Aw don’t see what tha friend was doin’ at Khartoum wi’ Goordon.” “‘E was makin’ Perry Davis’ Pain Killer for them at ‘ome who wouldn’t send Gordon ‘elp when the ‘eathen was at ‘is doors a ‘underd to one. ‘E was makin’ it for them to soothe their bloomin’ pains an’ sorrers when Gordon an’ Macnamara ‘ad cried ‘elp! for the lawst toime!” “Aw’ve taken off ma hat to Goordon’s nevvy-he be a fine man-head for macheens he has”-Holgate’s eyes dwelt on his engine lovingly; “but aw’ve heerd nowt o’ Macnamara-never nowt o’ him. Who was Macnamara?” “‘E was the bloomin’ flower of the flock-’e was my pal as took service in the Leave-me-alone-to-die Regiment at Khartoum.” “Aw’ve never read o’ Macnamara. Dost think tha’ll ever know how he went?”