He escapes, and we regard his departure very much as a gang of hopeless convicts might regard the unexpected liberation of one of their number.
This is the sort of life that gives a man a God-Almighty longing to break away and take to the bush.
HIS COLONIAL OATH
I lately met an old schoolmate of mine up-country. He was much changed. He was tall and lank, and had the most hideous bristly red beard I ever saw. He was working on his father’s farm. He shook hands, looked anywhere but in my face—and said nothing. Presently I remarked at a venture “So poor old Mr B., the schoolmaster, is dead.”
“My oath!” he replied.
“He was a good old sort.”
“My oath!”
“Time goes by pretty quick, doesn’t it?”
His oath (colonial).
“Poor old Mr B. died awfully sudden, didn’t he?”