Considering we are mortal, it is extraordinary how seldom the ordinary person looks upon death. Always it comes with a shock. At least it did. I suppose this war has accustomed some of us to the sight, so that we take the result of the meeting of mortal man with his last friend on earth more as a matter of eourse, as indeed it should be taken. Of course I know this is one of the results of the war.
My sister's son, staying with me after six months in hospital, consequent upon a wound at Gallipoli, came home from a stroll one day and reported that he had seen nothing, and then at dinner that night mentioned in a casual manner that he had seen two dead men being carried out of a large building and put in a motor ear.
I said in astonishment:
“They couldn't have been dead!”
“Of course they were. Do you think I don't know dead men when I see them? I've seen plenty.”
So many that the sight of a couple in the streets of a quiet little country town seemed not even an occasion for remark.
But I was not even accustomed to thinking of dead men and I turned upon Mr Wang angrily:
“But that isn't a funeral. That's a corpse,” and once more to my irritation he rejoiced over a new word.
“Who killed him?” I asked.
“They think an enemy has done this thing,” said he sententiously and unnecessarily, as, ignorant as I am of tilings Chinese, I should hardly think even they could have called it a friendly action. The body had been found the day before, and the people were much troubled about it. An official from Ping Yow—a coroner, I suppose we should call him—was coming out to inquire about it, and because the sun was already hot the people had raised a little screen of matting with a table and chairs where he could sit to hold inquiry.