“What else did Connor say?” asked Coolin, eagerly.
“‘E said ‘is kit was for you that’s spoilin’ a good name in the condinsation of the Commissaryat, Coolin.”
“But what else?” urged Coolin. “Nothin’ about a drame at all?”
“Who’s talkin’ about dreams!” said Bagshot. “‘E wasn’t no bloomin’ poet. ‘E was a man. What ‘e said ‘e said like a man. ‘E said ‘e’d got word from Mary—which is proper that a man should do when ‘e’s a-chuckin’ of ‘is tent-pegs. If ‘e ain’t got no mother—an’ Connor ‘adn’t ‘is wife or ‘is sweetheart ‘as the honour.”
“Oh, blessed God,” said Coolin, “I wish I hadn’t towld him—I wish I hadn’t towld the b’y.”
“Told ‘im wot?” said Bagshot.
But Coolin of the Commissariat did not answer; his head was on his arms, and his arms were on his knees.