"Yes; I come from Australia."
Presently he said in a tired, disinterested tone—
"I thought you come from abroad."
I sounded him as deep as he went, but "Abroad" was the nearest that he could get to Australia.
And I couldn't help thinking, "And are these of the people we're fighting for?"
I've had rare opportunities for studying the British shopkeeper in all his glory. I had taken a £30 house, but it soon got round that I came from abroad, or Australia, so of course I must have plenty of money. On the evening of the day we shifted into the house there came a knock at the front door, and I went to open it—we hadn't captured a maid yet. I saw a decently-dressed, respectable-looking man backing out towards the gate, and I asked him if he wanted me.
"I must apologize, sir, for coming to the front gate, sir," he said nervously, still backing out.
"Why?" I asked.
By this time he'd got to the gate, and I couldn't catch what he said—I'm rather deaf, you know. I didn't seem able to coax him nearer, so I told him to wait while I called the wife. When she came down he'd disappeared. We stood wondering awhile, and presently the wife heard a timid knock at the back door, and we went there. It was the man—he'd slipped in and round while my back was turned. He had his hat off, and looked very apologetic.
"I really must beg yer pardon, ma'am," he said, "for coming to the front door——"
