'“Peg out that man!” sez my orf'cer bhoy, niver losin' his timper; an' the non-coms wint in and pegged out Scrub Greene by the side av Peg Barney. 'I cud see that the draf' was comin' roun'. The men stud not knowin' fwhat to do. '“Get to your tents!” sez me orf'cer bhoy. “Sargint, put a sintry over these two men.” 'The men wint back into the tents like jackals, an' the rest av the night there was no noise at all excipt the stip av the sintry over the two, an' Scrub Greene blubberin' like a child. 'Twas a chilly night, an' faith, ut sobered Peg Barney. 'Just before Revelly, my orf'cer bhoy comes out an' sez: “Loose those men an' send thim to their tents!” Scrub Greene wint away widout a word, but Peg Barney, stiff wid the cowld, stud like a sheep, thryin' to make his orf'cer understhand he was sorry for playin' the goat. 'There was no tucker in the draf' whin ut fell in for the march, an' divil a wurrd about “illegality” cud I hear. 'I wint to the ould Colour Sargint and I sez:--“Let me die in glory,” sez I. “I've seen a man this day!” '“A man he is,” sez ould Hother; “the draf's as sick as a herrin'. They'll all go down to the sea like lambs. That bhoy has the bowils av a cantonmint av Gin'rals.” '“Amin,” sez I, “an' good luck go wid him, wheriver he be, by land or by sea. Let me know how the draf gets clear.” 'An' do you know how they _did?_ That bhoy, so I was tould by letter from Bombay, bullydamned 'em down to the dock, till they cudn't call their sowls their own. From the time they left me oi till they was 'tween decks, not wan av thim was more than dacintly dhrunk. An', by the Holy Articles av War, whin they wint aboard they cheered him till they cudn't spake, an' _that_, mark you, has not come about wid a draf in the mim'ry av livin' man! You look to that little orf'cer bhoy. He has bowils. 'Tis not ivry child that wud chuck the Rig'lations to Flanders an' stretch Peg Barney on a wink from a brokin an' dilapidated ould carkiss like mesilf. I'd be proud to serve--' 'Terence, you're a civilian,' said Dinah Shadd warningly. 'So I am--so I am. Is ut likely I wud forget ut? But he was a gran' bhoy all the same, an' I'm only a mud-tipper wid a hod on my shoulthers. The whiskey's in the heel av your hand, Sorr. Wid your good lave we'll dhrink to the Ould Rig'mint--three fingers--standin' up!' And we drank. THE WRECK OF THE VISIGOTH [Footnote: 1895] 'Eternal Father, strong to save, Whose arm hath bound the restless wave, Who bidst the mighty ocean keep Its own appointed limits deep.'