And little by little, as they realised that the new order was sure and
that their ancient oppressors were quite dead, there returned not only
cultivators, craftsmen, and artisans, but outlandish men of war, scarred
with old wounds and the generous dimples that the Martini-Henry bullet
used to deal - fighting men on the lookout for new employ. They would
hang about, first on one leg, then on the other, proud or uneasily
friendly, till some white officer circulated near by. And at his fourth
or fifth passing, brown and white having approved each other by eye, the
talk - so men say - would run something like this:
OFFICER (with air of sudden discovery). Oh, you by the hut, there,
what is your business?
WARRIOR (at 'attention' complicated by attempt to salute). I am
So-and-So, son of So-and-So, from such and such a place.
OFFICER. I hear. And ...?
WARRIOR (repeating salute). And a fighting man also.
OFFICER (impersonally to horizon). But they all say that nowadays.
WARRIOR (very loudly). But there is a man in one of your battalions
who can testify to it. He is the grandson of my father's uncle.
OFFICER (confidentially to his boots). Hell is quite full of such
grandsons of just such father's uncles; and how do I know if Private
So-and-So speaks the truth about his family?
