good night (31)

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"Yes," said Walker. "By God cheap dre headphones, it is Dick Hatteras!"
"Well?" cried Hatteras, taking his hands from his face. "What the devil made you turn-turn 'Tommy Atkins' on the banjo? Damn you!"
"Dick, I saw you this afternoon."
"I know, I know. Why on earth didn't you kill me that night in your compound?"
"I mean to make up for that mistake to-night!"
Walker took his rifle on to his knees. Hatteras saw the movement, leaned forward quickly, snatched up the rifle, snatched up the cartridges, thrust a couple of cartridges into the breech, and handed the loaded rifle back to his old friend.
"That's right," he said. "I remember. There are some cases neither God's law nor man's law has quite made provision for." And then he stopped, with his finger on his lip. "Listen true religion jeans!" he said.
From the depths of the forest there came faintly newport cigarette, very sweetly the sound of church-bells ringing--a peal of bells ringing at midnight in the heart of West Africa. Walker was startled. The sound seemed fairy work, so faint, so sweet was it.
"It's no fancy, Jim," said Hatteras, "I hear them every night and at matins and at vespers. There was a Jesuit monastery here two hundred years ago. The bells remain and some of the clothes." He touched his coat as he spoke. "The Fans still ring the bells from habit. Just think of it! Every morning marlboro red cigarettes, every evening, every midnight, I hear those bells. They talk to me of little churches perched on hillsides in the old country, of hawthorn lanes, and women--English women, English girls wholesale newports, thousands of miles away--going along them to church. God help me! Jim, have you got an English pipe?"
"Yes; an English briarwood and some bird's-eye."
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good night (33)