Roden stood beside him,
slouching and heavy-shouldered, with his hands in his trouser pockets.
His lower lip was pressed inward between his teeth. His eyes were drawn
and anxious.
On the bed, between the two men, lay a third--an old-looking youth with
lank red hair. It was the story of St. Jacob Straat over again, and it
was new to Percy Roden, who could not turn his eyes elsewhere. The man
was dying. He was a Pole who understood no word of English. Indeed,
these three men had no language in common in which to make themselves
understood.
"Can you do nothing at all?" asked Roden, for the second or third time.
"Nothing," answered Von Holzen, without turning round. "He was a doomed
man when he came here."
The man lay on the bed and stared at Von Holzen's back. Perhaps that
was the reason why Von Holzen so persistently looked out of the window.
The work-hours were over, and from some neighbouring cottage the sounds
of a concertina came on the quiet air. The musician had chosen a
popular music-hall song, which he played over and over again with a
maddening pertinacity. Roden bit his lip, and frowned at each
repetition of the opening bars. Von Holzen, with a still, pale face and
stern eyes, seemed to hear nothing. He had no nerves. At times he
twisted his lips, moistening them with his tongue, and suppressed an
impatient sigh. The man was a long time in dying. They had been waiting
there two hours.
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