|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmcig

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ll this man.
XXIII
I saw Strickland not infrequentlyand now and then played chess with him. He was of uncertain temper.
Sometimes he would sit silent and abstractedtaking no notice of anyone; and at otherswhen he was in a
good humourhe would talk in his own halting way. He never said a clever thingbut he had a vein of brutal
sarcasm which was not ineffectiveand he always said exactly what he thought. He was indifferent to the
susceptibilities of othersand when he wounded them was amused. He was constantly offending Dirk Stroeve
so bitterly that he flung awayvowing he would never speak to him again; but there was a solid force in
Strickland that attracted the fat Dutchman against his willso that he came backfawning like a clumsy dog
though he knew that his only greeting would be the blow he dreaded.
I do not know why Strickland put up with me. Our relations were peculiar. One day he asked me to lend him
fifty francs.
XXIII52
I wouldn't dream of it I replied.
Why not?
It wouldn't amuse me.
I'm frightfully hard upyou know.
I don't care.
You don't care if I starve?
Why on earth should I?
I asked in my turn.
He looked at me for a minute or twopulling his untidy beard. I smiled at him.
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|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmctx