G. is dead." At the word I turned hastily to another column
and found the news that had stirred him. And even in the midst of
world-shaking events it stirred me too. For a brief moment I forgot the war
and was back in that cheerful world where we used to be happy, where we
greeted the rising sun with light hearts and saw its setting without fear.
In that cheerful world I can hardly recall a time when a big man with a
black beard was not my King.
I first saw him in the 'seventies. I was a small boy then, and I did him
the honour of playing truant--"playing wag" we called it. I felt that the
occasion demanded it. To have the god of my idolatry in my own little town
and not to pay him my devotions--why, the idea was almost like blasphemy. A
half-dozen, or even a dozen, from my easily infuriated master would be a
small price to pay. I should take the stripes as a homage to the hero. He
would never know, but I should be proud to suffer in his honour.
Unfortunately there was a canvas round the field where the hero played, and
as the mark of the Mint was absent from my pockets I was on the wrong side
of the canvas.
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