. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre. “A ballot-box, you know,” he said, “is very largely just a box. ‘There you have soldiers. Down there, whisky raises the very devil with white men. You are captain of your soul; don't forget your Henley. ‘Trespasses,’ supplied Gerald.
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