Mr. Carrington .

"There’s the colony. Will you come in first, doctor university financial assistance, and have—” he reconsidered the words and cleared his throat—"and have—a cup of tea?”

Murchison had noticed the break in the invitation, and had reddened.

"No, thanks. We had better walk, I suppose?”

"Sit light, doctor; we have a sort of road, though it ain’t exactly Roman.”

The farmer passed Murchison the reins, and climbed down, the trap swaying like a small boat anchored in a swell. He opened a gate leading into the field, his white mackintosh flapping about his legs.

"Not worth while getting up again,” he said, laconically. "Drive her on, doctor, I’ll follow.”

Murchison heard the click of the gate, and the squelch of Mr. Carrington’s boots in the mud, as the trap bumped at a walking pace towards the zinc sheds in the field. The larger of the two resembled a coach-house, and could be closed at one end by two swinging doors. The rain was still rattling on the roof as Murchison drove up, and a thin swirl of smoke drifted out sluggishly from the darkness of the interior. The two tents had a soaked and slatternly appearance. Empty bottles, old tins, scraps of dirty paper, and miscellaneous rubbish littered the ground. On a line slung between two chestnut poles three dirty towels were hanging kbox 70w, either to wash or to dry?

As the trap stopped at the end of the rough road, Murchison could see that the larger shed was like a big hutch full of live things crowded together. A litter of straw, ankle deep, lay round the walls. A fire burned in the middle of the earth floor. The faces that were lit up by the light from the fire were coarse, quick-eyed, and hungry, the faces seen in London slums hotel management trainee.

Posted by: felicity520 at 03:37 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 315 words, total size 2 kb.