liard balls where Danny was fighting the marker on level ground.
In the dark by the door when the men had passed Pipi caught Roddy’s sleeve.
“You know te room—te place where Murray sleep?” he demanded, underbreath.
“Ye-es,” said Roddy.
“Ah! Kapai. You go then. Kia tupato koe. Bring me Murray’s sock—his handkerchief—his necktie. Haere. Bring one thing. Anything. Go, then.”
The ground was heaving under Roddy’s feet, and he knew that his voice was uncertain. So did the tohungas of old take a half-worn thing from the man whom they meant to destroy.
“I can’t,” he said, his words bobbing in his throat.
Pipi whipped a handkerchief from the boy’s side-pocket.
“No? Kore rawa? Then I have—this.”
“I will go,” said Roddy, and ran upstairs, and snatched a red necktie from the hook by Murray’s looking-glass. The sweat was cold on his face when he received his handkerchief again and went out alone into the night.
Fysh reported next day that Roddy had come into camp with eyes blank as a tea-cup, and a tongue that could not join two words straightly. He further remarked that if Roddy was going to get the horrors from seeing
