Saddlery
of all sorts was scattered about the floor promiscuously.
Certainly the owner of No Man's Land had not lived luxuriously.
A low galvanised-iron partition divided the house into two rooms,
and through the doorway could be seen a rough bunk made of bags
stretched on saplings.
As the old man finished speaking, Ah Loy brought in the evening
meal--about a dozen beautifully tender roast ducks in a large tin
dish, a tin plate full of light, delicately-browned cakes of the
sort known as "puftalooners," and a huge billy of tea. There were
no vegetables; pepper and salt were in plenty, and Worcester sauce.
They ate silently, as hungry men do, while the pigs and cattle-dogs
marched in at the open-door, and hustled each other for the scraps
that were thrown to them.
"How is it the pigs have no tails?" asked Carew.
"Bit off, Mister. The dogs bit them off. They've got the ears pretty
well chawed off 'em too."
Just then a pig and a dog made a simultaneous rush for a bone, and
the pig secured it. The dog, by way of revenge, fastened on to the
pig, and made him squeal like a locomotive engine whistling. The
old man kicked at large under the table, and restored order.
"You ain't eatin', Mister," he said, forking a duck on to Carew's
plate with his own fork. "These ducks is all right.
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