“We get heaps of tramps up there since the war.
The inspector told me I’d find ’em at
M’Bindwe siding waiting to go North. He’d
given ’em some grub and quinine, you see.
I went up on a construction train. I looked out
for ’em. I saw them miles ahead along the
straight, waiting in the teak. One of ’em
was standin’ up by the dead-end of tke siding
an’ the other was squattin’ down lookin’
up at ’im, you see.”
“What did you do for ’em?” said
Pritchard.
“There wasn’t much I could do, except
bury ’em. There’d been a bit of a
thunderstorm in the teak, you see, and they were both
stone dead and as black as charcoal. That’s
what they really were, you see—charcoal.
They fell to bits when we tried to shift ’em.
The man who was standin’ up had the false teeth.
I saw ’em shinin’ against the black.
Fell to bits he did too, like his mate squatting down
an’ watchin’ him, both of ’em all
wet in the rain. Both burned to charcoal, you
see. And—that’s what made me
ask about marks just now—the false-toother
was tattooed on the arms and chest—a crown
and foul anchor with M.V. above.”
“I’ve seen that,” said Pyecroft
quickly. “It was so.”
“But if he was all charcoal-like?” said
Pritchard, shuddering.
“You know how writing shows up white on a burned
letter? Well, it was like that, you see.
We buried ’em in the teak and I kept...
But he was a friend of you two gentlemen, you see.”
Mr. Hooper brought his hand away from his waistcoat-pocket—empty.
Pritchard covered his face with his hands for a moment,
like a child shutting out an ugliness.
“And to think of her at Hauraki!” he murmured—“with
’er ’air-ribbon on my beer. ‘Ada,’
she said to her niece... Oh, my Gawd!"...
“On a summer afternoon, when the
honeysuckle blooms,
And all Nature seems at rest,
Underneath the bower, ’mid the perfume
of the flower,
Sat a maiden with the one she loves the
best——”
sang the picnic-party waiting for their train at Glengariff.
“Well, I don’t know how you feel about
it,” said Pyecroft, “but ‘avin’
seen ’is face for five consecutive nights on
end, I’m inclined to finish what’s left
of the beer an’ thank Gawd he’s dead!”
“OUR FATHERS ALSO”
By—they are by with mirth and
tears,
Wit or the works of Desire—
Cushioned about on the kindly years
Between the wall and the fire.
The grapes are pressed, the corn is shocked—
Standeth no more to glean;
For the Gates of Love and Learning locked
When they went out between.
All lore our Lady Venus bares
Signalled it was or told
By the dear lips long given to theirs
And longer to the mould.
All Profit, all Device, all Truth
Written it was or said
By the mighty men of their mighty youth.
Which is mighty being dead.
