The Valley of Bones Read Online Free PDF

voice. We stood aside for him
to enter the room.
    ‘Such a fat officer has got into your
bed, Bithel,’ shouted Pumphrey, hardly able to control himself with laughter.
    Bithel lurched through the door of the
attic. He stood for several seconds looking hard at the bed, as if he could not
believe his eyes; not believe his luck either, for a broad smile spread over
his face, as if he were delighted beyond words. He took the cigar from his
mouth and placed it with great care in the crevice of a large glass ashtray
marked with a coloured advertisement for some brand of beer, the sole ornament
in the room. This ashtray stood on a small table, which, with a broken chair
and Bithel’s camp-bed, were its only furniture. Then, clasping his hands
together above his head, Bithel began to dance.
    ‘Oh, my,’ said Breeze. ‘Oh, my.’
    Bithel, now gesticulating whimsically
with his hands, tripped slowly round the bed, regularly changing from one foot
to the other, as if following the known steps of a ritual dance.
    ‘A song of love …’ he intoned gently. ‘A
song of love …’
    From time to time he darted his head
forward and down, like one longing to embrace the figure on the bed, always
stopping short at the moment, overcome by coyness at being seen to offer this
mark of affection – perhaps passion – in the presence of onlookers. At first
everyone, including myself, was in fits of laughter. It was, indeed, an
extraordinary spectacle, unlike anything before seen, utterly unexpected,
fascinating in its strangeness. Pumphrey was quite scarlet in the face, as if
about to have an apoplectic fit, Breeze and Kedward equally amused. The
chaplains, too, seemed to be greatly enjoying themselves. However, as Bithel’s
dance continued, its contortions became increasingly grotesque. He circled
round the bed quicker and quicker, writhing his body, undulating his arms in
oriental fashion. I became gradually aware that, so far as I was myself
concerned, I had had sufficient. A certain embarrassment was making itself
felt. The joke had gone on long enough, perhaps too long. Bithel’s comic turn
should be brought to a close. It was time for him, and everyone else, to get
some sleep. That was how I felt. At the same time, I had nothing but admiration
for the manner in which Bithel had shown himself equal to being ragged; indeed,
the way in which he had come out completely on top of those who had tried to
make him look silly. In similar circumstances I should myself have fallen far
short of any such mastery of the situation. Nevertheless, an end should now be
made. We had seen enough. You could have too much of a good thing. It must, in
any case, stop soon. These were idle hopes. Bithel showed no sign whatever of
wanting to terminate his dance. Now he placed the palms of his hands together
as if in the semblance of prayer, now violently rocked his body from side to
side in religious ecstasy, now whirled past kicking out his feet before him in
a country measure. All the time he danced, he chanted endearments to the dummy
on the bed. I think Popkiss was the first, after myself, to begin to tire of
the scene. He took Dooley by the arm.
    ‘Come along, Ambrose,’ he said, ‘Sunday
tomorrow. Busy day. It’s our bedtime.’
    At that moment, Bithel, no doubt by
this time dizzy with beer and dervish-like dancing, collapsed on top of the
dummy. The camp-bed creaked ominously on its trestles, but did not buckle under
him. Throwing his arms round the outline of the valise, he squeezed it with
abandon, at the same time covering the sponge-bag with kisses.
    ‘Love ‘o mine …’ he mumbled, ‘Love ‘o
mine …’
    I was wondering what would happen
next, when I realized that he and I were alone in the room. Quite suddenly the
others must have decided to leave, drifting off to bed, bored, embarrassed, or
merely tired. The last seemed the most probable. Their instincts told them the
rag was at an end; that time had come for sleep. Bithel still lay