‘None of them are such fools after what happened to Bailey.’
‘The other night a police car brought Yusef home,’ Tallit said. ‘I saw it from here plainly.’
‘One of the drivers earning a bit on the side,’ Father Rank said.
‘I thought I saw Major Scobie. He was careful not to get out. Of course I am not perfectly sure. It
looked
like Major Scobie.’
‘My tongue runs away with me,’ the priest said. ‘What a garrulous fool I am. Why, if it was Scobie, I wouldn’t think twice about it: His eyes roamed the room. ‘Not twice,’ he said. ‘I’d lay next Sunday’s collection that everything was all right, absolutely all right,’ and he swung his great empty-sounding bell to and fro, Ho, ho, ho, like a leper proclaiming his misery.
III
The light was still on in Harris’s room when Wilson returned to the hotel. He was tired and worried and he tried to tiptoe by, but Harris heard him. ‘I’ve been listening for you, old man,’ he said, waving an electric torch. He wore his mosquito-boots outside his pyjamas and looked like a harassed air-raid warden.
‘It’s late. I thought you’d be asleep.’
‘I couldn’t sleep until we’d had our hunt. The idea’s grown on me, old man. We might have a monthly prize. I can see the time coming when other people will want to join in.’
Wilson said with irony, ‘There might be a silver cup.’
‘Stranger things have happened, old man. The Cockroach Championship.’
He led the way, walking softly on the boards to the middle of his room: the iron bed stood under its greying net, the armchair with collapsible back, the dressing-table littered with old
Picture Posts
. It shocked Wilson once again to realize that a room could be a degree more cheerless than his own.
‘We’ll draw our rooms alternate nights, old man.’
‘What weapon shall I use?’
‘You can borrow one of my slippers.’ A board squeaked under Wilson’s feet and Harris turned warningly. ‘They have ears like rats,’ he said.
‘I’m a bit tired. Don’t you think that tonight …?’
‘Just five minutes, old man. I couldn’t sleep without a hunt. Look, there’s one—over the dressing-table. You can have first shot,’ but as the shadow of the slipper fell upon the plaster wall, the insect shot away.
‘No use doing it like that, old man. Watch
me
.’ Harris stalked his prey. The cockroach was half-way up the wall, and Harris, as he moved on tiptoe across the creaking floor, began to weave the light of his torch backwards and forwards over the cockroach. Then suddenly he struck and left a smear of blood. ‘One up,’ he said. ‘You have to mesmerize them.’
To and fro across the room they padded, weaving their lights, smashing down their shoes, occasionally losing their heads and pursuing wildly into corners: the lust of the hunt touched Wilson’s imagination. At first their manner to each other was ‘sporting’; they would call out, ‘Good-shot’ or ‘Hard Luck’, but once they met together against the wainscot over the same cockroach when the score was even, and their tempers became frayed.
‘No point in going after the same bird, old man,’ Harris said.
‘I started him.’
‘You lost your one, old man. This was mine.’
‘It was the same. He did a double turn.’
‘Oh no.’
‘Anyway, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t go for the same one. You drove it towards me. Bad play on your part.’
‘Not allowed in the rules,’ Harris said shortly.
‘Perhaps not in your rules.’
‘Damn it all,’ Harris said, ‘I invented the game.’
A cockroach sat upon the brown cake of soap in the washbasin. Wilson spied it and took a long shot with the shoe from six feet away. The shoe landed smartly on the soap and the cockroach span into the basin: Harris turned on the tap and washed it down. ‘Good shot, old man,’ he said placatingly. ‘One D.D.’
‘D.D. be damned,’ Wilson said. ‘It was dead when you turned on the tap.’
‘You couldn’t
‘The other night a police car brought Yusef home,’ Tallit said. ‘I saw it from here plainly.’
‘One of the drivers earning a bit on the side,’ Father Rank said.
‘I thought I saw Major Scobie. He was careful not to get out. Of course I am not perfectly sure. It
looked
like Major Scobie.’
‘My tongue runs away with me,’ the priest said. ‘What a garrulous fool I am. Why, if it was Scobie, I wouldn’t think twice about it: His eyes roamed the room. ‘Not twice,’ he said. ‘I’d lay next Sunday’s collection that everything was all right, absolutely all right,’ and he swung his great empty-sounding bell to and fro, Ho, ho, ho, like a leper proclaiming his misery.
III
The light was still on in Harris’s room when Wilson returned to the hotel. He was tired and worried and he tried to tiptoe by, but Harris heard him. ‘I’ve been listening for you, old man,’ he said, waving an electric torch. He wore his mosquito-boots outside his pyjamas and looked like a harassed air-raid warden.
‘It’s late. I thought you’d be asleep.’
‘I couldn’t sleep until we’d had our hunt. The idea’s grown on me, old man. We might have a monthly prize. I can see the time coming when other people will want to join in.’
Wilson said with irony, ‘There might be a silver cup.’
‘Stranger things have happened, old man. The Cockroach Championship.’
He led the way, walking softly on the boards to the middle of his room: the iron bed stood under its greying net, the armchair with collapsible back, the dressing-table littered with old
Picture Posts
. It shocked Wilson once again to realize that a room could be a degree more cheerless than his own.
‘We’ll draw our rooms alternate nights, old man.’
‘What weapon shall I use?’
‘You can borrow one of my slippers.’ A board squeaked under Wilson’s feet and Harris turned warningly. ‘They have ears like rats,’ he said.
‘I’m a bit tired. Don’t you think that tonight …?’
‘Just five minutes, old man. I couldn’t sleep without a hunt. Look, there’s one—over the dressing-table. You can have first shot,’ but as the shadow of the slipper fell upon the plaster wall, the insect shot away.
‘No use doing it like that, old man. Watch
me
.’ Harris stalked his prey. The cockroach was half-way up the wall, and Harris, as he moved on tiptoe across the creaking floor, began to weave the light of his torch backwards and forwards over the cockroach. Then suddenly he struck and left a smear of blood. ‘One up,’ he said. ‘You have to mesmerize them.’
To and fro across the room they padded, weaving their lights, smashing down their shoes, occasionally losing their heads and pursuing wildly into corners: the lust of the hunt touched Wilson’s imagination. At first their manner to each other was ‘sporting’; they would call out, ‘Good-shot’ or ‘Hard Luck’, but once they met together against the wainscot over the same cockroach when the score was even, and their tempers became frayed.
‘No point in going after the same bird, old man,’ Harris said.
‘I started him.’
‘You lost your one, old man. This was mine.’
‘It was the same. He did a double turn.’
‘Oh no.’
‘Anyway, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t go for the same one. You drove it towards me. Bad play on your part.’
‘Not allowed in the rules,’ Harris said shortly.
‘Perhaps not in your rules.’
‘Damn it all,’ Harris said, ‘I invented the game.’
A cockroach sat upon the brown cake of soap in the washbasin. Wilson spied it and took a long shot with the shoe from six feet away. The shoe landed smartly on the soap and the cockroach span into the basin: Harris turned on the tap and washed it down. ‘Good shot, old man,’ he said placatingly. ‘One D.D.’
‘D.D. be damned,’ Wilson said. ‘It was dead when you turned on the tap.’
‘You couldn’t
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