"The Germans don't fire at men with stripes, I hear," he remarked,
"They only shoot rale good soldiers. A livin' corp'ral's hardly as (p. 045)
good as a dead rifleman."
Six foot three of Cumberland bone and muscle detached itself from the
straw and looked round the barn. We call it Goliath on account of its
size.
"Who's to sing the first song," asked Goliath. "A good hearty song!"
"One with whiskers on it!" said the corporal.
"I'll slash the game up and give a rale ould song, whiskers
to the toes of it," said Feelan, shoving his sword in its scabbard and
throwin' himself flat back on the straw. "Its a song about the
time Irelan' was fightin' for freedom and it's called _The Rising of
the Moon_! A great song entirely it is, and I cannot do it justice."
Feelan stood up, his legs wide apart and both his thumbs stuck in the
upper pockets of his tunic. Behind him the barn stretched out into the
gloom that our solitary candle could not pierce. On either side rifles
hung from the wall, and packs and haversacks stood high from the straw
in which most of the men had buried themselves, leaving nothing but
their faces, fringed with the rims of Balaclava helmets, exposed to
view. The night was bitterly cold, outside where the sky stood high
splashed with countless stars and where the earth gripped tight on (p. 046)
itself, the frost fiend was busy; in the barn, with its medley of men,
roosting hens and prowling rats all was cosy and warm.
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