The resonant hammering of a coffin-lid is no pleasant thing to hear, but those who have experience maintain that much more terrible is the soft swish of the bed-linen, the reeving and unreeving of the bed-tapes, when he who has fallen by the roadside is apparelled for burial, sinking gradually as the tapes are tied over, till the swaddled shape touches the floor and there is no protest against the indignity of hasty disposal.

At the last moment Lowndes was seized with scruples of conscience.  ‘Ought you to read the service,—­from beginning to end?’ said he to Spurstow.

’I intend to.  You’re my senior as a civilian.  You can take it if you like.’

’I didn’t mean that for a moment.  I only thought if we could get a chaplain from somewhere,—­I’m willing to ride anywhere,—­and give poor Hummil a better chance.  That’s all.’

‘Bosh!’ said Spurstow, as he framed his lips to the tremendous words that stand at the head of the burial service.

After breakfast they smoked a pipe in silence to the memory of the dead.  Then Spurstow said absently—­

‘’Tisn’t in medical science.’

‘What?’

‘Things in a dead man’s eye.’

‘For goodness’ sake leave that horror alone!’ said Lowndes.  ’I’ve seen a native die of pure fright when a tiger chivied him.  I know what killed Hummil.’

‘The deuce you do!  I’m going to try to see.’  And the doctor retreated into the bath-room with a Kodak camera.  After a few minutes there was the sound of something being hammered to pieces, and he emerged, very white indeed.

‘Have you got a picture?’ said Mottram.  ‘What does the thing look like?’

’It was impossible, of course.  You needn’t look, Mottram.  I’ve torn up the films.  There was nothing there.  It was impossible.’

‘That,’ said Lowndes, very distinctly, watching the shaking hand striving to relight the pipe, ‘is a damned lie.’

Mottram laughed uneasily.  ‘Spurstow’s right,’ he said.  ’We’re all in such a state now that we’d believe anything.  For pity’s sake let’s try to be rational.’

There was no further speech for a long time.  The hot wind whistled without, and the dry trees sobbed.  Presently the daily train, winking brass, burnished steel, and spouting steam, pulled up panting in the intense glare.  ‘We’d better go on on that,’ said Spurstow.  ’Go back to work.  I’ve written my certificate.  We can’t do any more good here, and work’ll keep our wits together.  Come on.’

No one moved.  It is not pleasant to face railway journeys at mid-day in June.  Spurstow gathered up his hat and whip, and, turning in the doorway, said—­

’There may be Heaven,—­there must be Hell.  Meantime, there is our life here.  We-ell?’

Neither Mottram nor Lowndes had any answer to the question.

THE MUTINY OF THE MAVERICKS