Paddy quaffed a pint from the foaming tankard, then resumed: "Yes, they got out their scimitors—knives like the master-cook cuts the rations up with. But before slicing the beef-steaks off me the High Priest offered up a prayer ’for the soul of Sahib Paddy Doolan, of the Dublin Fusiliers, who was to be sliced, fried, and eaten on the altar of Rahib, the High Priest of the Twopenny Tube in the Jungle of Tigers and Panthers.’ Next, they did a can-can—a sort of Highland fling—round me. "’Stop,’ ses I, ’I’ll never get drunk again,’ but they just sung—" "’Death to the Sahib, His blood for our Gods.’ "Finally, they sharpened their ould ham knives, and with a wild, wild yell, stuck every one into my ould hairy chest. And then I woke up—in hospital." "In hospital?" queried the amazed Spud. "Yes, I was in the D.T.’s (delirium tremens)." "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the crowd in a rollicking way, for Paddy Doolan was the champion liar in the corps. But his story was sufficient to drag another drink out of the green-eyed Spud, and that was the main point so far as Doolan and his pals were concerned. "It’s your turn now, ’Dominie,’" said the captain to a grizzled old red-nosed warrior, who had seen better days. "What do you want?" "Tell us about Algy—some of them haven’t heard that yarn." "Well," said the Dominie, lighting up his old cutty-pipe, "Algy was a gent who listed in my first ’crush’—the Perthshire Kilties. He arrived one night at Fort George with a cabful of luggage, a bicycle, a box of sardines and prunes, and a big printed roll showing how he descended from Willie the Conqueror—that’s the chap who led the Normans." "D’ye mean the Mormons?" interjected Spud. "No, you fathead. However, Algy rang the bell. When the sergeant opened the gate he saluted, for he thought this was some new officer. "’I’m a recruit, sergeant,’ said Algy. "’What’s yer name?’ asked the sergeant. "’Algy de Verepot—I’ve been "plucked" at Sandhurst, and I want to get a commission through the ranks.’" "’You’ll be lucky if you get your dinner; but come tae the sergeant-major,’ said he, pointing out the sergeant-major’s quarters. The sergeant-major gave Algy a welcome, and told his colour-sergeant to coddle and be kind to him. "In his room he hung up his pedigree, threw around his public-school blazers and badges, and dropped here and there some family notepaper with a handsome crest on it. Every soldier loves a real live toff, so all the boys gave him a hand with his kit, and acted generally as his lackeys.