“Yes--but----Look here! From the time that this man Hickmot was twelve years old he’d ridden, driven--what’s the word?--conducted sheep for his father for thousands of miles on end, an’ months at a time, alone with these black fellers that you daren’t show the back of your neck to--else they knock your head in. That was all that he’d ever done till he joined up. He--he--didn’t _belong_ to anything in the world, you understand. And he didn’t strike other men as being a--a human being.” “Why? He was a Queensland drover. They’re all right,” Orton explained. “I dare say; but--well, a man notices another man, don’t he? You’d notice if there was a man standing or sitting or lyin’ near you, wouldn’t you? So’d any one. But you’d never notice Hickmot. His bein’ anywhere about wouldn’t stay in your mind. He just didn’t draw attention any more than anything else that happened to be about. Have you got it?” “Wasn’t he any use at his job?” Pole inquired. “I’ve nothing against him that way, an’ I’m--I was his platoon sergeant. He wouldn’t volunteer specially for any doings, but he’d slip out with the party and he’d slip back with what was left of ’em. No one noticed him, and he never opened his mouth about any doings. You’d think a man who had lived the way he’d lived among black fellers an’ sheep would be noticeable enough in an English battalion, wouldn’t you?” “It teaches ’em to lie close; but _you_ seem to have noticed him,” Orton interposed, with a little suspicion. “Not at the time--but afterwards. If he was noticeable it was on account of his _un_noticeability--same way you’d notice there not being an extra step at the bottom of the staircase when you thought there was.” “Ye-es,” Pole said suddenly. “It’s the eternal mystery of personality. ‘God before Whom ever lie bare----’ Some people can occlude their personality like turning off a tap. I beg your pardon. Carry on!” “Granted,” said Bevin. “I think I catch your drift. I used to think I was a student of human nature before I joined up.” “What was your job--before?” Orton asked. “Oh, I was _the_ young blood of the village. Goal-keeper in our soccer team, secretary of the local cricket and rifle--oh, lor’!--clubs. Yes, an’ village theatricals. My father was the chemist in the village. _How_ I did talk! _What_ I did know!” He beamed upon us all. “_I_ don’t mind hearing you talk,” said Orton, lying back in his chair. “You’re a little different from some of ’em. What happened to this dam’ drover of yours?” “He was with our push for the rest of the war--an’ I don’t think he ever sprung a dozen words at one time. With his upbringing, you see, there wasn’t any subject that any man knew about he _could_ open up on. He kept quiet, and mixed with his backgrounds. If there was a lump of dirt, or a hole in the ground, or what was--was left after anythin’ had happened, it would be Hickmot. That was all he wanted to be.” “A camouflager?” Orton suggested.