Leave

!

McCormack rolled the wonderful word around his tongue. Leave, after three years in this God-forsaken hole.

A steamer every three months, and then remaining only long enough to load one’s copra and away. Barely long enough to allow a man to see a few white faces and drink a cold beer or two.

Mail? Yes, one got one’s mail. Al ways one or two from home; and maybe Phyllis and Jean had scribbled a line or two. Anyway, showed one was not for gotten.

But now, after these last three years (or was it three hundred!) —leave!

It seemed that these last few weeks would never pass; but now the steamer should be showing up at any time. How one’s eyes tried to pierce the hill, and to look round the corner.

When she shows up it will mean an hour before she drops her pick—plenty of time to get one’s gear to the wharf.

No; better get it taken down now —one never knows!

Fortnight from now—Sydney! Yes, one always made out a list, but what chance had one of keeping to it? Now, where the deuce —yes, here it is—St. James, Prince Edward —seem to be dozens of places to go to. Gosh, have to get in two a day; must go home and see the folks.

What’s the name of that dance place?

No matter —Jean or Phyl will know.

Mutiny? Yes, one mutinied against all the rules of civilisation when one got back. Didn’t one have to make up for those three years?

Won’t they ever lower that launch!

Must be an hour since she dropped an chor. At last! Two hours now, and then freedom. Funny, the new bloke hasn’t come ashore —yes, there’s only one aboard that launch. Of course! He must have “one last one” before he leaves the mob.

Yes, old son, you’ll need it if you stay here as long as I did!

What’s this? Head Office —“Regret— relief uncertain —maybe next steamer — must realise —shortage men—more re grets .”

Laugh, you fool! Can’t you see the

joke? Three years!

Desne.