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Chapter IV. A Diary Of The Dying
WhowouldimagineitastheterribleGolgothastrewnwiththebodiesofthehumanrace?Suddenly,Ifindmyselflaughing.
"Halloa,youngfellah!"saysLordJohn,staringatmeinsurprise."Wecoulddowithajokeinthesehardtimes.Whatwasit,then?"
"Iwasthinkingofallthegreatunsolvedquestions,"Ianswer,"thequestionsthatwespentsomuchlaborandthoughtover.ThinkofAnglo-Germancompetition,forexample—orthePersianGulfthatmyoldchiefwassokeenabout.Whoeverwouldhaveguessed,whenwefumedandfrettedso,howtheyweretobeeventuallysolved?"
Wefallintosilenceagain.Ifancythateachofusisthinkingoffriendsthathavegonebefore.Mrs.Challengerissobbingquietly,andherhusbandiswhisperingtoher.Mymindturnstoallthemostunlikelypeople,andIseeeachofthemlyingwhiteandrigidaspoorAustindoesintheyard.ThereisMcArdle,forexample,Iknowexactlywhereheis,withhisfaceuponhiswritingdeskandhishandonhisowntelephone,justasIheardhimfall.Beaumont,theeditor,too—Isupposeheislyingupontheblue-and-redTurkeycarpetwhichadornedhissanctum.Andthefellowsinthereporters’room—MacdonaandMurrayandBond.Theyhadcertainlydiedhardatworkontheirjob,withnote-booksfullofvividimpressionsandstrangehappeningsintheirhands.Icouldjustimaginehowthisonewouldhavebeenpackedofftothedoctors,andthatothertoWestminster,andyetathirdtoSt.Paul’s.
