A large, well-groomed Brother across the table (his name was Pole, and he seemed some sort of professional man) struck in with a detailed account of a hollow behind a destroyed village near Thiepval, where, for no ascertainable reason, a certain rather scarce herb had sprung up by the acre, he said, out of the overturned earth. “Only you’ve got to poke among the weeds to find it, and there’s any quantity of bombs an’ stuff knockin’ about there still. They haven’t cleaned it up yet.” “Last time _I_ saw the place,” said Bevin, “I thought it ’ud be that way till Judgment Day. You know how it lay in that dip under that beet-factory. I saw it bombed up level in two days--into brick-dust mainly. They were huntin’ for St. Firmin Dump.” He took a sandwich and munched slowly, wiping his face, for the night was close. “Ye-es,” said Pole. “The trouble is there hasn’t been any judgment taken or executed. That’s why the world is where it is now. We didn’t need anything but justice--afterwards. Not gettin’ that, the bottom fell out of things, naturally.” “That’s how I look at it too,” Bevin replied. “We didn’t want all that talk afterwards--we only wanted justice. What _I_ say is, there _must_ be a right and a wrong to things. It can’t all be kiss-an’-make-friends, no matter what you do.” A thin, dark brother on my left, who had been attending to a cold pork pie (there are no pork pies to equal ours, which are home-made), suddenly lifted his long head, in which a pale blue glass eye swivelled insanely. “Well,” he said slowly. “_My_ motto is ‘Never again.’ Ne-ver again for me.” “Same here--till next time,” said Pole, across the table. “You’re from Sidney, ain’t you?” “How d’you know!” was the short answer. “You spoke.” The other smiled. So did Bevin, who added: “_I_ know how your push talk, well enough. Have you started that Republic of yours down under yet?” “No. But we’re goin’ to. _Then_ you’ll see.” “Carry on. No one’s hindering,” Bevin pursued. The Australian scowled. “No. We know they ain’t. And--and--that’s what makes us all so crazy angry with you.” He threw back his head and laughed the spleen out of him. “What _can_ you do with an Empire that--that don’t care what you do?” “I’ve heard that before,” Bevin laughed, and his fat sides shook. “Oh, I know _your_ push inside-out.” “When did you come across us? My name’s Orton--no relation to the Tichborne one.” “Gallip’li--dead mostly. My battalion began there. We only lost half.” “Lucky! They gambled _us_ away in two days. ’Member the hospital on the beach?” asked Orton. “Yes. An’ the man without the face--preaching,” said Bevin, sitting up a little. “Till he died,” said the Australian, his voice lowered. “_And_ afterwards,” Bevin added, lower still. “Christ! Were you there that night?”