The sight unnerved us for a moment, but we quickly recovered. We had looked on death many times, and our virgin terror was now almost lost.
"He's no good here now," said Moleskin sadly. "We'll look for a muck-barrow and wheel him down to the hut. Didn't I always say that he would come to a bad end, him with his hurry and flurry and his frothy get-about way?"
"He saved us by his hurry, anyhow," I remarked.
We turned the man over and straightened his limbs, then hurried off for a muck-barrow. On coming back we discovered that some person had stolen the man's boots.
"They should have been taken by us before we left him," I said.
Several of the men gathered around, and together we wheeled poor Bill down to the hut along the rickety barrow road. His face was white under the coating of beard, and his poor naked feet looked very blue and cold. All the workmen took off their caps and stood bareheaded until we passed out of sight. No one knew whose turn would come next. When Bill was buried I wrote, at the request of Moleskin Joe, a song on the tragedy. I called the song "A Little Tragedy," and I read it to my mate as we sat together in a quiet corner of the hut.
"The sweat was wet on his steaming loins and shoulders bent and scarred, And he dropped to earth like a spavined mule that's struck in the knacker's yard. Bury him deep in the red, red muck, and pile the clay on his breast, For all that he needs for his years of toil are years of unbroken rest.
"And who has mothered this kinless one? Why should we want to know As we hide his face from the eyes of men and his flesh from the hooded crow? Had he a sweetheart to wait for him, with a kiss for his toil-worn face? It doesn't matter, for here or there another can fill his place.
"Is there a prayer to be prayed for him? Or is there a bell to toll? We'll do the best for the body that's dead, and God can deal with the soul. We'll bury him decently out of sight, and he who can may pray. For maybe our turn will come to-morrow though his has come to-day.
"And maybe Bill had hopes of his own and a sort of vague desire For a pure woman to share his home and sit beside his fire; Joys like these he has maybe desired, but living and dying wild, He has never known of a maiden's love nor felt the kiss of a child.