Your muscles are hard, your eyes are as bright as they were in your school days.

You carry yourself like a man with a purpose.

You rise at five every morning, the doctor tells me, and you return here, worn out, at dusk.

You spend every moment of your time drilling those filthy blacks.

When you are not doing that, you are prospecting, supervising reports home, trying to make the best of your few millions of acres of fever swamps.