“Sell!” said Corporal Sweeney, “I’d sell the whole dump.”
And then he added, “I want to get home.”
The thought of “home” caused an emotional explosion in this bored and unshaven man. It roused a sudden exasperation in him, an exasperation that produced a feeling of sympathy for this supposed Frenchman. Corporal Sweeney was home-sick, Paul homeless. The remedy seemed so obvious to a man who spent a great deal of the day cursing the dump, the authorities who made the dump, the authorities who kept the dump where it was. Why the hell didn’t they sell it, give it away, or send it home? Corporal Sweeney did not bother his head about official subtleties, the difficulties of transport, the question of finance. He was not interested in the pocket of the English Public; in fact, he was in a mood to pick that pocket and distribute the proceeds to his pals.
“Capitalists! That’s what I’m doin’ here in this muck ’eap. Protectin’ the property of the bloke that pays taxes. He’s at home, makin’ money, and lookin’ after the kids.”
He got up and walked about, and became aware of a fifty-franc note in Brent’s hand. He flared.
“What’s that? Put that money away. Compris?”
Brent put it away.
“Mais oui, monsieur. Comme vous voulez. Mais, il faut payer——”
“Come ’ere,” said the brown man. “Lord love you, do you think anybody knows what they’ve got in the dump? Course they don’t know. Got a list, have I? Yes, and it’s all wrong; who bothers now the war’s over? What d’yer want for the home?”
Brent made a pretence of trying to understand.