A week later the Friend nearly stepped on him in the miniature rifle shed. He was lying at length on the dusty coir matting, his trousers rucked half-way to his knees, his sights set as for two hundred, deferentially asking Milligan the cripple to stand behind him and tell him whether he was canting.
“No, you aren’t now,” said Milligan patronizingly, “but you were.”
A DEPARTURE
Since first the White Horse Banner blew free,
By Hengist’s horde unfurled,
Nothing has changed on land or sea
Of the things that steer the world.
(As it was when the long-ships scudded through the gale
So it is where the Liners go.)
Time and Tide, they are both in a tale