He carries out all orders with
solemn thoroughness. He does not drink; he does not swear. His
nearest approach to animation comes at church, where he sings the
hymns--especially _O God, our help in ages past!_--as if he were
author and composer combined. His harsh, rasping accent is certainly
not that of a Highlander, nor does it smack altogether of the
Clydeside. As a matter of fact he is not a Scotsman at all, though
five out of six of us would put him down as such. Altogether he is a
man of mystery; but the regiment could do with many more such.
Once, and only once, did he give us a peep behind the scenes. Private
Burke, of D Company, a cheery soul, who possesses the entirely
Hibernian faculty of being able to combine a most fanatical and
seditious brand of Nationalism with a genuine and ardent enthusiasm
for the British Empire, one day made a contemptuous and ribald
reference to the Ulster Volunteers and their leader. M'Ostrich, who
was sitting on his bedding at the other side of the hut, promptly rose
to his feet, crossed the floor in three strides, and silently felled
the humorist to the earth. Plainly, if M'Ostrich comes safe through
the war, he is prepared for another and grimmer campaign.
Lastly, that jack-of-all trades and master of none, Private Dunshie.
As already recorded, Dunshie's original calling had been that of a
street news-vendor.
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