"Isch ga bibble! I don't care!" bawled the abandoned George; "can't be much worse than doing 'straight duty' round Barracks, here!--same thing, day in, day out--go and look at the 'duty detail' board--Regimental Number--Constable Redmond, 'prisoner's escort'--punching gangs of prisoners around all day long, on little rotten jobs about Barracks--and 'night guard' catching you every third night and--"
"Oyez! oyez! oyez! you good men of this--"
"Oh, yes! you can come the funny man all right, Mac--you've got a 'staff' job. Straight duty don't affect you. Why don't they shove me out on detachment again, and give me another chance to do real police work? . . . I tell you I'm fed up--properly. . . . I wish I was out of the blooming Force--I'm not 'wedded' to it, like you."
"'Ear, 'ear!" chimed in Hardy, with a sort of miserable heartiness. McSporran's contribution was merely a dour Scotch grin. In the moment's silence that followed a tremendous bawling squall of wind rocked the building