He saw the dark face, the plover's-egg-tinted eyeballs, and the thin excited hands. Above all, he remembered the passionate, queerly-strung words. Slowly he returned to South Africa, using the very sentence his sergeant had used to the poultry man. "Go on with your complaint. I'm listenin'." "Complaint! Complaint about you, you ox! We strip and kick your sort by thousands."
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