The Stone Jug without a gleam of light!  Could a man choke himself with his own fingers if the worst came to the worst?  The Digger and Stygian darkness—­now—­when he was going mad!  Men could not be so cruel....  But they’d say he was drunk.  He would lie still and cling with all his strength and heart and soul to sanity.  He would think of That Evening with Lucille—­and of her kisses.  He would recite the Odes of Horace, the Aeneid, the Odyssey as far as he could remember them, and then fall back on Shakespeare and other English poets.  Probably he knew a lot more Greek and Latin poetry (little as it was) than he did of English....

Corporal Prag improved the occasion as he unlaced his boots.  “Bloomin’ biby!  Afraid o’ the dark!  See wot boozin’ brings yer to.  Look at yer!  An’ look at me.  Non-c’misshn’d orficer in free an’ a ’arf years from j’inin’.  Never tasted alc’ol in me life, an’ if any man offud me a glarse, d’ye know what I’d dew?”

“No, Corporal, I’d like to hear,” replied Dam. (Must keep the animal talking as long as possible for the sake of human company.  He’d go mad at once, perhaps, when the Corporal went to bed.)

“I’d frow it strite in ’is faice, I would,” announced the virtuous youth.  A big boot flopped heavily on the floor.

“I daresay you come of good old teetotal stock,” observed Dam, to make conversation.  Perhaps the fellow would pause in his assault upon the other boot and reply—­so lengthening out the precious minutes of diversion.  Every minute was a minute nearer dawn....

“Do yer?  Well, you’re bloomin’ well wrong, Maffewson, me lad.  My farver ‘ad a bout every Saturday arternoon and kep’ it up all day a Sund’y, ‘e did—­an’ in the werry las’ bout ’e ever ’ad ’e bashed ’is ole woman’s ‘ead in wiv’ a bottle.”

“And was hanged?” inquired Dam politely and innocently, but most tactlessly.

“Mind yer own b——­ business,” roared Corporal Prag.  “Other people’s farvers wasn’t gallows-birds if yourn was.  ’Ow’d you look if I come and punched you on the nose, eh?  Wot ‘ud you do if I come an’ set abaht yer, eh?”

“Break your neck,” replied Dam tersely.

“Ho, yus. And wot ’ud yew say when I calls the guard and they frows you into clink?  Without no light, Trooper Maffewson!”

Dam shuddered.

Corporal Prag yet further improved the occasion, earning Dam’s heartfelt blessing.

“Don’t you fergit it, Trooper Maffewson.  I’m yore sooperier orficer.  You may be better’n me in the Ring, praps, or with the sword (Dam could have killed him in five minutes, with or without weapons), but if I ’olds up my little finger you comes to ’eel—­or other’ow you goes ter clink.  ‘Ung indeed!  You look after yer own farver an’ don’ pass remarks on yer betters.  Why!  You boozin’ waster, I shall be Regimental Sargen’ Majer when you’re a bloomin’ discharged private wiv an ’undred ‘drunks’