I came across him on the rim of the bog. He stood before a whitewashed cabin glaring fiercely over the brown world.
 
A coal-black dudeen hung empty and bottom up from his puckered mouth, a rumpled frieze cap was perilously balanced atop of a fringe of white hair. His full figure, upholstered in a worn velvet waistcoat, was thrust well forward as if daring Fate to hit it another blow.
 
At the moment he was acting as a scratching-post to a large white billy-goat, which chafed itself luxuriously to and fro against his straddled legs. At the sound of my horse's hoofs he turned his head. At the sight of my uniform his eyes brightened, he withdrew a smutty hand from a corduroy pocket and made a travesty of a salute towards his cap, which almost lost its balance.
 
"Hey! Good day to ye, Captain!" (I am a second lieutenant, but in Ireland every lance-corporal has visionary batons on his shoulder-straps.)
 
I replied suitably, agreed that the weather was fine for the second and trusted, if we were good, we might have an hour of it.
 
"How is it wid the War this mornin', yer honour?"
 
I replied that, as far as I knew, it was still there, had passed a quiet night and was doing nicely, thanks.
 
"Was you ever at the Front, Captain?"
 
I nodded, and at that his eyes gleamed.
 
"Begob!—then 'tis yerself has the luck. Wait till I tell you a minute. I'm afther wishin' be all the Blessed Saints I was twinty year younger, 'tis meself would be the first afther them German Daygoes—I would so, the dirthy, desthroyin' blagyards! Tell me now, Captain dear, did you ever kill wan of them at all?"
 
He hung on my answer to such an extent that the white billy tore a tatter from his canvas coat and ate it unrebuked.
 
I wagged my head. "Don't know—couldn't say."
 
"Och, shure, no! What would a gran............