“In the hut where I am?”
“The hut where you are? No. In the hut in the bush where he kicked the bucket.”
“Were you able to let his people know that he was dead?” Hi asked.
“No; I didn’t know that he had any people.”
“Hadn’t he letters?” Hi asked. “There are scraps of letters in the hut; torn up. Perhaps we could piece them together.”
“There weren’t any letters,” the man said. “Wigmore had no letters. I expect you saw bits of some of mine, from my loving father: blast him.”
“No, these were to Wigmore.”
“Oh,” the man said. “Well, I saw none. I looked through his things. Of course, out here, an Englishman with another Englishman, that was the least one could do.”
“He had a girl and a mother.”
“How the hell do you know? I knew Wigmore well, my damned young cub. As well, that is, as anyone could know a fellow of that stamp.”