“But, in a way o’ puttin’ it, we can’t say that he actually did desert,” Pyecroft suggested. “Oh, no,” said Pritchard. “It was only permanent absence up country without leaf. That was all.” “Up country?” said Hooper. “Did they circulate his description?” “What for?” said Pritchard, most impolitely. “Because deserters are like columns in the war. They don’t move away from the line, you see. I’ve known a chap caught at Salisbury that way tryin’ to get to Nyassa. They tell me, but o’ course I don’t know, that they don’t ask questions on the Nyassa Lake Flotilla up there. I’ve heard of a P. and O. quartermaster in full command of an armed launch there.” “Do you think Click ’ud ha’ gone up that way?” Pritchard asked. “There’s no saying. He was sent up to Bloemfontein to take over some Navy ammunition left in the fort. We know he took it over and saw it into the trucks. Then there was no more Click—then or thereafter. Four months ago it transpired, and thus the _casus belli_ stands at present,” said Pyecroft. “What were his marks?” said Hooper again. “Does the Railway get a reward for returnin’ ’em, then?” said Pritchard. “If I did d’you suppose I’d talk about it?” Hooper retorted angrily. “You seemed so very interested,” said Pritchard with equal crispness. “Why was he called Click?” I asked to tide over an uneasy little break in the conversation. The two men were staring at each other very fixedly. “Because of an ammunition hoist carryin’ away,” said Pyecroft. “And it carried away four of ’is teeth—on the lower port side, wasn’t it, Pritch? The substitutes which he bought weren’t screwed home in a manner o’ sayin’. When he talked fast they used to lift a little on the bed plate. ’Ence, ‘Click.’ They called ’im a superior man which is what we’d call a long, black-’aired, genteely speakin’, ’alf-bred beggar on the lower deck.” “Four false teeth on the lower left jaw,” said Hooper, his hand in his waistcoat pocket. “What tattoo marks?” “Look here,” began Pritchard, half rising. “I’m sure we’re very grateful to you as a gentleman for your ’orspitality, but per’aps we may ’ave made an error in—” I looked at Pyecroft for aid, Hooper was crimsoning rapidly. “If the fat marine now occupying the foc’sle will kindly bring ’is _status quo_ to an anchor yet once more, we may be able to talk like gentlemen—not to say friends,” said Pyecroft. “He regards you, Mr. Hooper, as a emissary of the Law.” “I only wish to observe that when a gentleman exhibits such a peculiar, or I should rather say, such a _bloomin’_ curiosity in identification marks as our friend here——” “Mr. Pritchard,” I interposed, “I’ll take all the responsibility for Mr. Hooper.” “An’ _you_’ll apologise all round,” said Pyecroft. “You’re a rude little man, Pritch.” “But how was I——” he began, wavering. “I don’t know an’ I don’t care. Apologise!”