“Why? He was a Queensland drover. They’re all right,” Orton explained.
“I dare say; but—well, a man notices another man, don’t he? You’d notice if there was a man standing or sitting or lyin’ near you, wouldn’t you? So’d any one. But you’d never notice Hickmot. His bein’ anywhere about wouldn’t stay in your mind. He just didn’t draw attention any more than anything else that happened to be about. Have you got it?”
“Wasn’t he any use at his job?” Pole inquired.
“I’ve nothing against him that way, an’ I’m—I was his platoon sergeant. He wouldn’t volunteer specially for any doings, but he’d slip out with the party and he’d slip back with what was left of ’em. No one noticed him, and he never opened his mouth about any doings. You’d think a man who had lived the way he’d lived among black fellers an’ sheep would be noticeable enough in an English battalion, wouldn’t you?”
“It teaches ’em to lie close; but you seem to have noticed him,” Orton interposed, with a little suspicion.
“Not at the time—but afterwards. If he was noticeable it was on account of his unnoticeability—same way you’d notice there not being an extra step at the bottom of the staircase when you thought there was.”
“Ye-es,” Pole said suddenly. “It’s the eternal mystery of personality. ‘God before Whom ever lie bare——’ Some people can occlude their personality like turning off a tap. I beg your pardon. Carry on!”
“Granted,” said Bevin. “I think I catch your drift. I used to think I was a student of human nature before I joined up.”
“What was your job—before?” Orton asked.
“Oh, I was the young blood of the village. Goal-keeper in our soccer team, secretary of the local cricket and rifle—oh, lor’!—clubs. Yes, an’ village theatricals. My father was the chemist in the village. How I did talk! What I did know!” He beamed upon us all.