"Ho! the prickly briar,
It prickles my throat so sore—
If I get out o' the prickly briar,
I'll never get in any more.
Ho! just loosen the rope"
At this point I must have come within his view, for he halted a moment, and then turned abruptly out of the track towards me,—a scare-crow of a figure, powdered white with dust. In spite of the weather, he wore his tattered coat buttoned at the throat, with the collar turned up. Probably he possessed no shirt; certainly no socks, for his toes protruded from the broken boots. He was quite young.
Without salutation he dropped on the turf two paces off and remarked—
"It's bleedin' 'ot."
There was just a pause while he cast his eyes back on the country he had travelled; then, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the port, he inquired—
"'Ow's the old lot?"
