The one, red-eyed, furtive, lies on his side with restless,
clutching hands that tear and twist and torture the living grass,
while his lips mutter incoherently. The other sits stooped, bare-
footed, legs wide apart, his face grey, almost as grey as his
stubbly beard; and it is not long since Death looked him in the
eyes. He tells me querulously of a two hundred miles tramp since
early spring, of search for work, casual jobs with more kicks than
halfpence, and a brief but blissful sojourn in a hospital bed, from
which he was dismissed with sentence passed upon him. For himself,
he is determined to die on the road under a hedge, where a man can
see and breathe. His anxiety is all for his fellow; HE has said he
will "do for a man"; he wants to "swing," to get out of his "dog's
life." I watch him as he lies, this Ishmael and would-be Lamech.
Ignorance, hunger, terror, the exhaustion of past generations, have
done their work. The man is mad, and would kill his fellowman.
Presently we part, and the two go, dogged and footsore, down the
road which is to lead them into the great silence.
CHAPTER III
Yesterday was a day of encounters.
First, early in the morning, a young girl came down the road on a
bicycle. Her dressguard was loose, and she stopped to ask for a
piece of string. When I had tied it for her she looked at me, at
my worn dusty clothes and burnt face; and then she took a Niphetos
rose from her belt and laid it shyly in my dirty disfigured palm.
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