Eleven oclo the m. The sun doing its work in the sky.
The meiring, said Julie. Perhaps you should give them a break.
Thomas made the "break" signal waving his arm in a downward motion.
The men fell out by the roadside. The cable relaxed in the road.
This grand expedition, the Dead Father said, this waltz across an unknown parquet, this little band of brothers. . .
You are not a brother, Julie reminded him. Do not get waltzed away.
That they should so love me, the Dead Father said, as to haul and haul and haul and haul, through the long days and nights ahan optimal weather ditions. . .
Julie looked away.
My children, the Dead Father said. Mine. Mine. Mine.
Thomas lay down with his head in Julies lap.
Many sad things have befallen me, he said, and many sad things are yet to befall me, but the saddest thing of all is that fellow Edmund. The fat one.
The drunk, Julie said.
Yes.
How did you e by him?
I was standing in the square, on a beer keg as I remember, signing people up, and heard this swallowing noise under my feet. Edmund. Swallowing the tap.
You khen. Before you signed him up.
He begged. He was abject.
A son of mine, heless, said the Dead Father.
It would be the making of him, he said. Our march. I did not agree. But it is hard to deny someohe thihinks will be the making of him. I signed him up.
He has handsome hair, Julie said. That Ive noticed.
He was happy to throw away the cap-and-bells, said Thomas. As we all were, he added, looking pointedly at the Dead Father.
Thomas pulled an e fools cap tipped with silver bells from his knapsack.
To think that I have worn this abomination, or its mate, since I was sixteen.
Sixteen to sixty-five, so says the law, said the Dead Father.
This does not make you loved.
Loved! Not a matter of love. A matter anization.
All the little heads so gay, said Julie. Makes one look a perfect fool, the cap. Brown-and-beige, maroon-and-gray, red-and-green, all bells chilattering. What a picture. I thought, erfect fools.
As was intended, said the Dead Father.
And had I been caught out-of-doors without it, my ears cut off, said Thomas. What a notion. What an imagination.
A certain artistry, said the Dead Father. In my ukases.
Let us lunch, said Julie. Although its early.
The roadside. The tablecloth. Ringle of dinnerbell. Toasted prawns. They disposed themselves around the cloth in this fashion:
Quite good.
Not so bad.
Is there mustard?
I.
Something in it.
What?
Look there.
Pick it out with your finger.
Nasty little bugger.
Pass the prawns.
And for dessert?
Fig ons.
They sat tentedly around the cloth, mung. Ahead of them, the lunch fires of the men. The cable sla the roadway.
Soon we will be there, said the Dead Father.
Fourteen days or fifteen days, I re, Thomas said. If we are headed right.
Is there any doubt?
There is always doubt.
When we are there, and when I myself in its warm yellowness, then I will be young again, said the Dead Father. I shall once more be wiry.
Wiry! Julie exclaimed. She stuffed a part of the tablecloth into her mouth.
My dear, Thomas said. He extended a hand which of itself and without guidance grasped one of her handsome breasts.
Not in front of him.
Thomas removed