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"Some'ow or other, that made the Sergeant froth at the mouth. 'E 'ad no more play to his intellects than a spit-kid. 'E just took everything as it come. Well, that was about all, I think.... Unless you'd care to have me resume my narrative." We resumed on the old terms, but with rather less hot water. The marine on the floor breathed evenly, and Mr. Pyecroft nodded.
He rounded on us, o' course, an' got off easy." "Excep' for what we gave him in the steerin'-flat when we came out o' cells. 'Eard anything of 'im lately, Pye?" "Signal Boatswain in the Channel Fleet, I believe Mr. L.L. Niven is." "An' Anstey died o' fever in Benin," Pritchard mused. "What come to Moon? Spit-Kid we know about." "Moon Moon!
He told us he had an uncle 'oo'd give us land to farm. 'E said he was born at the back o' Vancouver Island, and all the time the beggar was a balmy Barnado Orphan!" "But we believed him," said Pyecroft. "I did you did Paterson did an' 'oo was the Marine that married the cocoanut-woman afterwards him with the mouth?" "Oh, Jones, Spit-Kid Jones. I 'aven't thought of 'im in years," said Pritchard.
"Yes, Spit-Kid believed it, an' George Anstey and Moon. We were very young an' very curious." "But lovin' an' trustful to a degree," said Pyecroft. "Remember when 'e told us to walk in single file for fear o' bears? 'Remember, Pye, when 'e 'opped about in that bog full o' ferns an' sniffed an' said 'e could smell the smoke of 'is uncle's farm?
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