The Penguin Book of First World War Stories by None, Anne-Marie Einhaus Page A

body?” he says very low.
    â€˜â€œDepinds,” says I, marvellin’ was ut a human sacrifice he was for makin’, the like of the Druids, to get back the dog.
    â€˜â€œNot fourteen hours back,” says he, “he died on us.”
    â€˜â€œWas he wan of yourselves?” says I. “A nice fool I’d look if I came shankin’ back from the fair wid a bit of the wrong unit.”
    â€˜â€œHe was,” says he, “an’ the best of us all.” An’ then he went on, wid me puttin’ in just a word now and then, or a glimpse of the dog, to keep him desirous and gabbin’. There’s no use in cheapenin’ your wares. He let on how this fellow he spoke of had never joyed since they came to that place, an’ gone mad at the finish wi’ not gettin’ his sleep without he’d be seein’ Them Wans in a dream and hearin’ the Banshies; the way he bruk out at three in the morning that day, apt to cut anny in two that would offer to hold him. “Here’s out of it all,” he appeared to have said; “I’ve lived through iv’ry room in hell, how long, O Lord, how long, but it’s glory an’ victory now,” an’ off an’ away wid him West, through The Garden. “Ye’ll not have seen him at all?” says me friend. We hadn’t notussed, I told him. “We were right then,” says he; “he’ll have died on the way. For he let a scream in the night that a man couldn’t give an’ live after. If he’d fetched up at your end,” says he, “you’d have known, for he was as brave as a lion.”
    â€˜â€œA livin’ dog’s better,” says I, “than anny dead lion. It’s a Jew’s bargain you’re makin’. Where’s the deceased?”
    â€˜â€œPass me the dog,” says he, “an’ I’ll give you his route out from here to where he’ll have dropped. It’s his point of deparchure I stand at.”
    â€˜â€œI’ll come to ye there,” says I, “an’ ye’ll give me his bearin’s, an’ when I’ve set eyes on me man I’ll come back an’ hand ye the dog, an’ not sooner.”
    â€˜He was spaichless a moment. “Come now,” says I, from me lair in the fog, “wan of the two of us has to be trustful. I’ll not let ye down.”
    â€˜â€œYe’ll swear to come back?” says he in great anguish.
    â€˜I said, “Tubbe sure.”
    â€˜â€œCome on with ye, then,” he answered.
    â€˜I went stoopin’ along to within six feet of his voice, the way ye’d swim under water, an’ then I came to the surface. The clayey-white face that he had, an’ the top of his body showed over a breastwork the moral of ours. An’, be cripes, it was all right. The red figures were plain on his shoulder-strap – wan-eighty-six. Another breastwork the fellow to his was not thirty yards south. There was jus’ the light left me to see that the sentry there was wan-eighty-six too. I’d inspicted the goods in bulk now, an’ only had to see to me sample an’ off home with it.’
    Toomey looked benedictively down on the long stiff frame with its Iron Cross ribbon and red worsted ‘186’. ‘An ould storm-throoper!’ Toomey commendingly said. ‘His friend gev me the line to him. Then he got anxious. “Ye’ll bury him fair?” he said. “Is he a Prod’stant?” says I, “or a Cath’lic?” “A good Cath’lic,” says he; “we’re Bavarians here.” “Good,” says I, “I’ll speak to Father Moloney meself.” “An’ ye’ll come back,” says he, “wi’ the dog?” ‘”I will not,” says I, “I shall hand him ye now. Ye’re a straight man not to ha’ shot me before. Besides, ye’re a