Collected Stories Read Free Page A

haunt his mind) if anybody thought he’d shoot Noble. “You would,” says Jeremiah Donovan shortly. “I wouldn’t, damn you!” “You would if you knew you’d be shot for not doing it.” “I wouldn’t, not if I was to be shot twenty times over; he’s my chum. And Belcher wouldn’t—isn’t that right, Belcher?” “That’s right, chum,” says Belcher peaceably. “Damned if I would. Anyway, who says Noble’d be shot if I wasn’t bumped off? What d’you think I’d do if I was in Noble’s place and we were out in the middle of a blasted bog?” “What would you do?” “I’d go with him wherever he was going. I’d share my last bob with him and stick by ’im through thick and thin.”
    â€œWe’ve had enough of this,” says Jeremiah Donovan, cocking his revolver. “Is there any message you want to send before I fire?” “No, there isn’t, but …” “Do you want to say your prayers?” ’Awkins came out with a cold-blooded remark that shocked even me and turned to Noble again. “Listen to me, Noble,” he said. “You and me are chums. You won’t come over to my side, so I’ll come over to your side. Is that fair? Just you give me a rifle and I’ll go with you wherever you want.”
    Nobody answered him.
    â€œDo you understand?” he said. “I’m through with it all. I’m a deserter or anything else you like, but from this on I’m one of you. Does that prove to you that I mean what I say?” Noble raised his head, but as Donovan began to speak he lowered it again without answering. “For the last time have you any messages to send?” says Donovan in a cold and excited voice.
    â€œAh, shut up, you, Donovan; you don’t understand me, but these fellows do. They’re my chums; they stand by me and I stand by them. We’re not the capitalist tools you seem to think us.”
    I alone of the crowd saw Donovan raise his Webley to the back of ’Awkins’s neck, and as he did so I shut my eyes and tried to say a prayer. ’Awkins had begun to say something else when Donovan let fly, and, as I opened my eyes at the bang, I saw him stagger at the knees and lie out flat at Noble’s feet, slowly, and as quiet as a child, with the lantern light falling sadly upon his lean legs and bright farmer’s boots. We all stood very still for a while watching him settle out in the last agony.
    Then Belcher quietly takes out a handkerchief, and begins to tie it about his own eyes (for in our excitement we had forgotten to offer the same to ’Awkins), and, seeing it is not big enough, turns and asks for a loan of mine. I give it to him and as he knots the two together he points with his foot at ’Awkins. “’E’s not quite dead,” he says, “better give ’im another.” Surr enough ’Awkins’s left knee as we see it under the lantern is rising again. I bend down and put my gun to his ear; then, recollecting myself and the company of Belcher, I stand up again with a few hasty words. Belcher understands what is in my mind. “Give ’im ’is first,” he says. “I don’t mind. Poor bastard, we dunno what’s ’appening to ’im now.” As by this time I am beyond all feeling I kneel down again and skilfully give ’Awkins the last shot so as to put him forever out of pain.
    Belcher who is fumbling a bit awkwardly with the handkerchiefs comes out with a laugh when he hears the shot. It is the first time I have heard him laugh, and it sends a shiver down my spine, coming as it does so inappropriately upon the tragic death of his old friend. “Poor blighter,” he says quietly, “and last night he was so curious abaout it all. It’s very queer, chums, I always think. Naow, ’e knows as much abaout it as