"Whut wis it?" queried the anxious and interested Spud.
"Wait," said Rab. "We kept on firing till the dawn came. An’ then we saw them—dizens o’ them lyin’ deid."
"Ye see, a’ the transport cuddies got loose an’ wandered. They got mixed up wi’ the wires an’ that wis the cause o’ the bother. Jist fancy, ten thoosan’ roonds tae kill three dizen cuddies."
"V.C.! Nae fear. I got ten days in the nick for openin’ fire on His Majesty’s cuddies."
"Ach, sure an’ I’ve a better yarn than that," said Paddy Doolan.
"It was out in India when I was in the ould Dublin Fusiliers. We were at a place nicknamed ’Holipore,’ that’s where the Holy Fathers pour medicine down the niggers’ necks, an’ beer down the sodgers’. The affair happened at night. I was on sentry-go, and about twelve I was startled to see a mad fakir wid fire in his eyes and a sword in his fingers advancing on me.
"’Halt!’ ses I, shiverin’ in my pants. But he never stopped. On he marched.
"’Be jabers, if yes don’t halt I’ll riddle ye,’ I roared. That didn’t halt him. I rammed a cartridge in and tried to fire, but divil a bit could I fire. It was jammed, or I was drammed. And then he stopped.
"’I am the Chief Priest of the Temple of Skulls. I bless you and annoint you one of my beloved and a son of the faithful. And I command you to ground your arms.’
"’I can’t—I’ll get the "nick" from the sargint.’
"’Great Sahib, obey, or I shall cut out thy heart and eyes.’
"I dropped my gun like a hot Connemara spud.
"’Sahib, double march and follow me.’ Off went the mad fellow into the jungle. I galloped after him. The tigers were roarin’, elephants trumpeting and hyenas crying like ould cats. But they fled from the sight of the ould fakir. I was puffin’ an’ blowin’ like a roarin’ race-horse, and sweatin’ like a pig, when he cried, ’Halt, O Sahib of the great white race.’
"’Not so much of the Sahib,’ ses I, ’but give me a drink.’
"’There is no refreshment in the Temple of Skulls. Your blood shall be the refreshment for our Gods. Watch, O Sahib.’ And before I could cough the ground opened up before me showing a stair made out of bones.
"’Enter,’ said he, like a bloomin’ ould butler. Down I went into the devil’s hole. It was a temple lit up with oil. The walls were made of skulls, and the floors had carpets made out of Highlanders’ kilts, fusiliers’ trousers, artillerymen’s pants, and cavalrymen’s dongarees. Holy Moses! I shivered like a cat on the tiles. As I got in, a dozen mad fellows commenced to play their pumpkin drums, and sing—"