Barrack-room etiquette is stringent. On the direct challenge must follow the direct reply. This is more binding than the ties of tried friendship. Once again Mulvaney repeated the question. Learoyd answered by the only means in his power, and so swiftly that the Irishman had barely time to avoid the blow. The laughter around increased. Learoyd looked bewilderedly at his friend--himself as greatly bewildered. Ortheris dropped from the table because his world was falling. ‘Come outside,’ said Mulvaney, and as the occupants of the barrack-room prepared joyously to follow, he turned and said furiously, ‘There will be no fight this night--onless any wan av you is wishful to assist. The man that does, follows on.’ No man moved. The three passed out into the moonlight, Learoyd fumbling with the buttons of his coat. The parade-ground was deserted except for the scurrying jackals. Mulvaney’s impetuous rush carried his companions far into the open ere Learoyd attempted to turn round and continue the discussion. ‘Be still now. ‘Twas my fault for beginnin’ things in the middle av an end, Jock. I should ha’ comminst wid an explanation; but Jock, dear, on your sowl are ye fit, think you, for the finest fight that iver was--betther than fightin’ me? Considher before ye answer.’ More than ever puzzled, Learoyd turned round two or three times, felt an arm, kicked tentatively, and answered, ‘Ah’m fit.’ He was accustomed to fight blindly at the bidding of the superior mind. They sat them down, the men looking on from afar, and Mulvaney untangled himself in mighty words. ‘Followin’ your fools’ scheme I wint out into the thrackless desert beyond the barricks. An’ there I met a pious Hindu dhriving a bullock-kyart. I tuk ut for granted he wud be delighted for to convoy me a piece, an’ I jumped in--’ ‘You long, lazy, black-haired swine,’ drawled Ortheris, who would have done the same thing under similar circumstances. ‘’Twas the height av policy. That naygur-man dhruv miles an’ miles--as far as the new railway line they’re buildin’ now back av the Tavi river. “‘Tis a kyart for dhirt only,” says he now an’ again timoreously, to get me out av ut. “Dhirt I am,” sez I, “an’ the dhryest that you iver kyarted. Dhrive on, me son, an glory be wid you.” At that I wint to slape, an’ took no heed till he pulled up on the embankmint av the line where the coolies were pilin’ mud. There was a matther av two thousand coolies on that line--you remimber that. Prisintly a bell rang, an’ they throops off to a big pay-shed. “Where’s the white man in charge?” sez I to my kyart-dhriver. “In the shed,” sez he, “engaged on a riffle.”--“A fwhat?” sez I. “Riffle,” sez he. “You take ticket. He take money. You get nothin’.”--