'Thin I knew ut was a draf of the ould rig'mint, an' I was conshumed wid sorrow for the bhoy that was in charge. We was harrd scrapin's at any time. Did I iver tell you how Horker Kelley went into clink nakid as Phoebus Apollonius, wid the shirts av the Corp'ril an' file undher his arrum? An' _he_ was a moild man! But I'm digreshin'. 'Tis a shame both to the rig'mints and the Arrmy sendin' down little orf'cer bhoys wid a draf av strong men mad wid liquor an' the chanst av gettin' shut av India, an' _niver a punishment that's fit to be given right down an' away from cantonmints to the dock!_ 'Tis this nonsince. Whin I am servin' my time, I'm undher the Articles av War, an' can be whipped on the peg for _thim_. But whin I've _served_ my time, I'm a Reserve man, an' the Articles av War haven't any hould on me. An orf'cer _can't_ do anythin' to a time-expired savin' confinin' him to barricks. 'Tis a wise rig'lation bekaze a time-expired does _not_ have any barricks; bein' on the move all the time. 'Tis a Solomon av a rig'lation, is that. I wud like to be inthroduced to the man that made ut. 'Tis easier to get colts from a Kibbereen horse-fair into Galway than to take a bad draf' over ten miles av country. Consiquintly that rig'lation--for fear that the men wud be hurt by the little orf'cer bhoy. No matther. The nearer my throlly came to the rest-camp, the woilder was the shine, an' the louder was the voice av Peg Barney. “'Tis good I am here,” thinks I to myself, “for Peg alone is employmint for two or three.” He bein', I well knew, as copped as a dhrover. 'Faith, that rest-camp was a sight! The tent-ropes was all skew-nosed, an' the pegs looked as dhrunk as the men--fifty av thim--the scourin's, an' rinsin's, an' Divil's lavin's av the Ould Rig'mint. I tell you, Sorr, they were dhrunker than any men you've ever seen in your mortial life. _How_ does a draf' get dhrunk? How does a frog get fat? They suk ut in through their shkins. 'There was Peg Barney sittin' on the groun' in his shirt--wan shoe off an' wan shoe on--whackin' a tent-peg over the head wid his boot, an singin' fit to wake the dead. 'Twas no clane song that he sung, though. 'Twas the Divil's Mass.' 'What's that?' I asked. 'Whin a bad egg is shut av the Arrmy, he sings the Divil's Mass for a good riddance; an' that manes swearin' at ivrything from the Commandher-in-Chief down to the Room-Corp'ril, such as you niver in your days heard. Some men can swear so as to make green turf crack! Have you iver heard the Curse in an Orange Lodge? The Divil's Mass is ten times worse, an' Peg Barney was singin' ut, whackin' the tent-peg on the head wid his boot for each man that he cursed. A powerful big voice had Peg Barney, an' a hard swearer he was whin sober. I stood forninst him, an' 'twas not me oi alone that cud tell Peg was dhrunk as a coot. '“Good mornin' Peg,” I sez, whin he dhrew breath afther cursin' the Adj'tint Gen'ral; “I've put on my best coat to see you, Peg Barney,” sez I.