't
venture to speak to you. But "--and he broke into smiles--"I'm on me
way home myself."

"I see," answered Miss Gregory.

He beamed at her, fatuous and full of pride. "On me way home," he
repeated. "For good. No more Africa for me. I've 'ad just upon eight
years of it--eight years of sun an' bugs an' fever, and now I'm going
home." He paused and looked at her impressively. "I've made my
pile," he said.

"That's good," said Miss Gregory. She saw the three others exchange
another glance.

The English youth was rapt; for some moments his eyes were unseeing,
and his lips moved without sound. It was not difficult to see what
home meant for him, a goal achieved at hazard, something familiar and
sympathetic, worth all the rest of the world. He came back to his
surroundings with a long sigh.

"You don't happen to know Clapham Junction, ma'am?" he suggested.
"Not the station, I don't mean, but the place? No? Well, that's where
I'm off to. I 'aven't seen a tramcar for eight years; it'll be queer
at first, I expect." He looked round him slowly at the low bare room
and the men in white clothes and the whispering night without. "My
mother takes lodgers," he added inconsequently.

"She will be glad to see you," said Miss Gregory.

"She will that," he agreed. He dropped his voice to the tones of
confidence. "I got an idea," he said. "Give her a surprise. I'll go
along to the house just about dark and say I'm lookin' for a room.
Eh? And she'll begin about terms. Then I'll begin. 'Never you mind
about terms,' I'll say. ''Ere's the price of eight years sweatin',
and God bless you, old lady!'" He blinked rapidly, for his eyes were
wet. "What do you think of that for a surprise?"

"Capital!" agreed Miss Gregory. "Are you going down the Coast by the
boat to-morrow?"

"That's it," he cried. "I'm going second-class, like a gentleman.
Home, by gosh!"

"Then," suggested Miss Gregory, eyeing his sullen companions, "don't
you think it would be best if you went and got some sleep now? You
wouldn't care to miss the boat, I suppose?"

He stared at her. "No," he said, as if the contingency had just
occurred to him. He sat back; his mild, insignificant face wore a
look of alarm. "No, I shouldn't. It wouldn't do." His voice dropped
again. "It wouldn't do," he repeated. "I've got it on me, an' this
ain't what you call a moral place."

Miss Gregory nodded comprehendingly. "I know," she said. "So wouldn't
it be as well on all accounts