A Kindness Cup Read Online Free PDF

Kowaha?’ Dorahy asked, peering down at the coiled arms of her.
    She held the bundle forward suddenly so that he could see the tiny child within, fuzzed and sleeping. She did nothing but smile, holding the child up for the three of them.
    â€˜Already?’ Dorahy murmured. ‘Your baby already?’ He had not seen her for several weeks.
    She was pleased with herself.
    Dorahy put out a careful finger to touch the sleeping face and breathed, ‘He’s beautiful.’
    â€˜Girl,’she said. Laughing at his idiocy. ‘Girl.’
    â€˜You’ve come for this?’ he asked. He loved the world. ‘To show me your baby?’
    â€˜Show baby.’
    Lunt and young Jenner, male-abashed before the marvel of it, stood back in shadow.
    â€˜My friends,’ Dorahy said. ‘Tim and Charlie. But you know Mr Lunt, don’t you?’ She giggled at him again.
    He was hesitating, searching for some commemorative thing that might be spelled out concretely.
    â€˜We must give your baby a present, eh? For luck. For lots and lots of it,’ he added, swinging round to the boy. ‘But I don’t know what. I simply don’t know what.’
    In the house Kowaha squatted on the floor above the child. It lay naked and kicking gently, frail, its skin a tender gold. Kowaha gurgled down at it.
    â€˜I have one thing,’ Dorahy mused, moving into the bedroom and shuffling through drawers. ‘Only one thing she might wear.’ He pulled out a little leather bag from which he drew a silver medal. ‘How about this, Kowaha?’ And he handed her a small dulled disc with the arms of Trinity College, Dublin, insanely shimmering in the oil light.
    â€˜Classics,’ he said to young Jenner. ‘My final year it was. I knew there’d be a use for it.’
    Kowaha held the medal gingerly, lifting it up and smiling, then running her fingers over the embossing.
    â€˜For luck,’ Dorahy said. ‘It used to be my luck. In a way. I give it to you.’
    â€˜Luck,’ she repeated.
    He threaded it with a strip of leather thong. Then he bent down and placed the circlet over the baby’s head.
    â€˜Little girl,’ he pronounced and he wasn’t laughing about it. ‘Classical first.’

M R SHERIDAN re-enters Dorahy’s mind,which is boiling in this crowded hotel. He is sitting back as the others register. His gentleness is fraying.
    Do you ever receive warrants against blackfellows guilty of offences? Sheridan asked.
    Lieutenant Buckmaster shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
    Very few. I have received two.
    What do you do with them?
    I try to execute the warrant and, if I am not able, I send it back again.
    Where do you send it?
    I send it back to the Inspector General of Police.
    Would it not—Mr Sheridan’s pencil began a slow tap—I repeat, would it not be much better that the warrants for this part of the country should remain in your possession so that you might be able to execute them as occasion offers?
    I have got copies.
    You have?
    A copy is sufficient, Lieutenant Buckmaster replied sullenly.
    Then, Mr Sheridan said leaning forward, do you know of a great many being in existence for various offenders? Copies, I mean, of course. What, if I may ask again, would you have?
    Only two,Lieutenant Buckmaster said. The bouncing ball outside reached towards a window.
    Sergeant, Mr Sheridan ordered, remove that child.
    Two? he pursued. I thought perhaps there were three. What are the two you have, Lieutenant?
    I know of one for Wilson. He paused.
    Yes? said Mr Sheridan gently.
    The bouncing stopped. Inside the court they could hear the gruffness of the sergeant. Mr Dorahy breathed ironically, Suffer, imperative, little children! It was all a question of a misplaced comma.
    And one for Kuttabul Tommy.
    For what?
    Attempted rape.
    And the third?
    There was no third.
    I think there was, Mr Sheridan suggested. You acted as if there was a