SOOSIE 



' No legend ! Well, let us invent one." SCOTT. 



A CRINKLED fist, fumbling and twisting, protruded from 

 a rent in a dilapidated dilly-bag. It had done so with 

 infinite feebleness for many an hour in unavailing 

 protest against the woes and weight of life, for faint 

 scratch s smeared with blood denoted the friction of 

 tender skin against the broken edges of the cane-made 

 bag. 



A scarcely audible, inhuman wail pathetically 

 staccato told of unceasing pain. Whomsoever the 

 bag contained was enduring martyrdom. 



"That fella, him no good. Close up finis. B'mbi 

 me plant 'm along scrub." 



Thus spoke the pleasant-faced gin who passed with 

 the dilly-bag along a narrow aisle of the jungle, intent 

 upon ridding herself of a vexatious encumbrance, and 

 at the same time performing the rite of unrighteous 

 burial. 



Squirming in dirt was a naked infant black, foul, 

 and but a few days old. 



"Mother belonga that fella him dead finis. That 

 fella, him no good. Him sing out all a time. More 

 better tchuck'm away." 



Frail outcast the very scum of a blacks' camp, its 

 repulsiveness was tragic. Dirt and odour sickened, yet 

 its appeal was irresistible. That universal language, a 



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