“Do you think Click ’ud ha’ gone up that way?” Pritchard asked.
“There’s no saying. He was sent up to Bloemfontein to take over some Navy ammunition left in the fort. We know he took it over and saw it into the trucks. Then there was no more Click—then or thereafter. Four months ago it transpired, and thus the casus belli stands at present,” said Pyecroft.
“What were his marks?” said Hooper again.
“Does the Railway get a reward for returnin’ ’em, then?” said Pritchard.
“If I did d’you suppose I’d talk about it?” Hooper retorted angrily.
“You seemed so very interested,” said Pritchard with equal crispness.
“Why was he called Click?” I asked to tide over an uneasy little break in the conversation. The two men were staring at each other very fixedly.
“Because of an ammunition hoist carryin’ away,” said Pyecroft. “And it carried away four of ’is teeth—on the lower port side, wasn’t it, Pritch? The substitutes which he bought weren’t screwed home in a manner o’ sayin’. When he talked fast they used to lift a little on the bed plate. ’Ence, ‘Click.’ They called ’im a superior man which is what we’d call a long, black-’aired, genteely speakin’, ’alf-bred beggar on the lower deck.”
“Four false teeth on the lower left jaw,” said Hooper, his hand in his waistcoat pocket. “What tattoo marks?”
“Look here,” began Pritchard, half rising. “I’m sure we’re very grateful to you as a gentleman for your ’orspitality, but per’aps we may ’ave made an error in—”