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Micah Hollman had established himself at Hixon, that shack town which had passed of late years from feudal county seat to the section's one point of contact with the outside world; a town where the ancient and modern orders brushed shoulders; where the new was tolerated, but dared not become aggressive.
Mac had exhausted most of his and the section's finance in excellent fashion. The harbour was out of bounds, but in several surreptitious excursions out on to the harbour, with Mick and one or two others, he had succeeded in getting from ships' canteens and stores as big a stock of provisions as he could carry with him on his return journey to Anzac.
With bowed head and hands clasped behind him he walked away to meditate. "After all, do not I see to-day a gleam of light thrown on the taking away of my Alene? With murder and lawnessness rampant in the Southland, this section's woes are to be many. Who can say what bloody orgies Alene has escaped?
My section's gone home; God bless them." "But what do you have to do?" "Do? Nothing," cried Henslowe. "Not a blooming bloody goddam thing! In fact, it's no use trying...the whole thing is such a mess you couldn't do anything if you wanted to." "I want to go and talk to people at the Schola Cantorum." "There'll be time for that.
The section's new position was only some fifteen hundred yards from the forward trench; but, being at the bottom of a gently sloping ridge which ran between the position and the German lines, it was covered from all except air observation.
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