THE GIRL.  Promise!

THE MAN.  If ’e keeps quiet, I won’t.  But I’m not accountable—­not always, I tell you straight—­not since I’ve been through that.

THE GIRL (with a shiver).  Nor p’r’aps ’e isn’t.

THE MAN.  Like as not.  It takes the lynchpins out, I tell you.

THE GIRL.  God ’elp us!

THE MAN (grimly).  Ah!  We said that a bit too often.  What we want, we take, now; there’s no one to give it us, and there’s no fear’ll stop us; we seen the bottom o’ things.

THE GIRL.  P’r’aps ’e’ll say that too.

THE MAN.  Then it’ll be ’im or me.

THE GIRL.  I’m frightened.

THE MAN (tenderly).  No, Daise, no! (He takes out a knife.) The river’s ’andy.  One more or less.  ’E shan’t ’arm you; nor me neither.

THE GIRL (seizing his hand).  Oh! no!  Give it to me, Jim!

THE MAN (smiling).  No fear! (He puts it away.) Shan’t ’ave no need for it, like as not.  All right, little Daise; you can’t be expected to see things like what we do.  What’s a life, anyway?  I’ve seen a thousand taken in five minutes.  I’ve seen dead men on the wires like flies on a fly-paper; I’ve been as good as dead meself an ‘undred times.  I’ve killed a dozen men.  It’s nothin’.  ’E’s safe, if ’e don’t get my blood up.  If ’e does, nobody’s safe; not ‘im, nor anybody else; not even you.  I’m speakin’ sober.

THE GIRL (softly).  Jim, you won’t go fightin’, wi’ the sun out and the birds all callin’?

THE MAN.  That depends on ‘im.  I’m not lookin’ for it.  Daise, I love you.  I love your eyes.  I love your hair.  I love you.

THE GIRL.  And I love you, Jim.  I don’t want nothin’ more than you in the whole world.

THE MAN.  Amen to that, my dear.  Kiss me close!

(The sound of a voice singing breaks in on their embrace. THE GIRL starts from his arms and looks behind her along the towing-path. THE MAN draws back against the hedge, fingering his side, where the knife is hidden.  The song comes nearer.)

  I’ll be right there to-night
  Where the fields are snowy white;
  Banjos ringin’, darkies singin’—­
  All the world seems bright.

THE GIRL.  It’s ’im!

THE MAN.  Don’t get the wind up, Daise.  I’m here!

(The singing stops.  A man’s voice says:  Christ!  It’s Daise; it’s little Daise ’erself!  THE GIRL stands rigid.  The figure of a soldier appears on the other side of the stile.  His cap is tucked into his belt, his hair is bright in the sunshine; he is lean, wasted, brown, and laughing.)

SOLDIER.  Daise!  Daise!  Hallo, old pretty girl!

(THE GIRL does not move, barring the way, as it were.)

THE GIRL.  Hallo, Jack! (Softly) I got things to tell you.

SOLDIER.  What sort o’ things, this lovely day?  Why, I got things that’d take me years to tell.  ’Ave you missed me, Daise?