“Not at all,” said Shafto. “Thank you so much for telling me your story. I am truly sorry for you, Ryan; it was hard lines losing your Polly. Do you mind telling me some more? After you had recovered your memory and become a pongye, what happened next?”
“Well, after a while, I chanced to see English papers and hear outside news, an’ I got a cast in a cargo boat down the river. I had a sort o’ longin’ to see the soldiers, the love of the Service is in me blood, so now and then I was drawn to Rangoon to get a sight of the khaki and to hear the barrack yarns. Ye see, one quarter of me is Cingalese—I suppose me grandfather on one side was a Buddhist, and that is how pongye life came so pleasant and aisy to me. The three quarters of me is an Irish soldier, an’ every day the soldier within me grows an’ the pongye dies away.”
“And you will never return to Burma?”
“Never, no. I have laid out to go to Ireland and spend the rest of my time there when the war is over.”
“Ah—I wonder when the war will be over?” said Shafto.
“God alone knows!” exclaimed the pongye. “They were talking in the bazaar of the end coming about Christmas. I think meself it will be a long business and an awkward business, too.”
“So do I,” agreed Shafto, recalling the sage remarks of George Gregory.
“Yes, it’s like a light stuck in an old thatch! We’ll have half the world in it before long, an’ the greatest blaze as ever was known.”
“I see that Australia and Canada and South Africa are all coming to lend a hand.”
“Well, we want every hand we can get—and every foot, too! I’ve heard plenty of big talk in the bazaar, where the Germans have laid out a mint of money. By all accounts they are going to take Persia, India, Burma, the whole of our trade, money and fleet. Well, if that comes off, it’ll be a cold world! By the way, sir,” he continued in another tone, “did ye see Ma Chit the day we were leavin’ Rangoon, signin’ and wavin’ to ye as we cast off?”