But just the staid,
respectable, orderly sort I belonged to's neither needed nor wanted
here. I fall to thinkin' sometimes on the fates of the hundreds of
honest, steady-goin' lads, who at one time or another have chucked up
their jobs over there--for this. The drink no doubt's took most: they
never knew before that one COULD sweat as you sweat here. And the rest?
Well, just accident . . . or the sun . . . or dysentery. . . or the
bloody toil that goes by the name o' work in these parts--you know the
list, doctor, better'n me. They say the waste o' life in a new country
can't be helped; doesn't matter; has to be. But that's cold comfort to
the wasted. No! I say to you, there ought to be an Act of Parliament to
prevent young fellows squanderin' themselves, throwin' away their lives
as I did mine. For when we're young, we're not sane. Youth's a fever o'
the brain. And I WAS young once, though you mightn't believe it; I had
straight joints, and no pouch under my chin, and my full share o' windy
hopes. Senseless truck these! To be spilled overboard bit by bit--like
on a hundred-mile tramp a new-chum finishes by pitchin' from his swag
all the needless rubbish he's started with. What's wanted to get on
here's somethin' quite else. Horny palms and costive bowels; more'n a
dash o' the sharper; and no sickly squeamishness about knockin' out
other men and steppin' into their shoes. And I was only an ordinary
young chap; not over-strong nor over-shrewd, but honest--honest, by God
I was! That didn't count.
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