truth or not. We talked about the different places we had been. About the different jobs we'd had. He was a lot older than I. About thirty-seven. This was the first time we had really had a good talk together, although we were the only two Maoris in that particular gang. But mostly that day Jack would be singing. ‘IF’—the tune was just fresh out then. And everyone was singing it. It was a catchy little tune—singing in his high falsetto voice—‘If the world to me bowed, I'd still be a slave to you—’ ‘The boss wants you to give him a hand at the main line Jack’. The words broke across Jack's singing. We both turned at the sound of the voice. One of the men, Joe Mason, from the other end of the line, had come up without us noticing him. ‘He's taking off the earthings. Wants you to give him a hand’. ‘B–—’, Jack said, and threw the handful of old binding wire he had over the arm between us. ‘Yes, you carry on here Rangi,’ he said to me. ‘I won't be long’,—I won't be long. He climbed down and crossed the paddock to the wooden gate in the gorse hedge and I saw him climb through it and walk out on to the roadway before I looked away— If I had everything I'd still be a slave to you If I ruled the night Moon and stars so bright— The melody Jack had been singing kept running through my head. I was lonely now that Jack had gone. The clouds had blocked out the sun and a light drizzle was beginning to fall. I felt cold now and impatient for knock-off. Thinking about the hot soup and the warmth in the dining room. And all the men and the talk there. If I ruled the Earth What would life be worth If I hadn't the right to you? The two men came hurrying across the paddock with safety belts and wiring slung over their shoulders: leaning against the wind. I recognised Arthur Maker and Paul Churchill. There was something about them: the way they came, that would have told. Then I saw Joe Mason climbing over the old gate and running to catch up with them. ‘Your mate's dead’, Paul Churchill said. The words came to me very faint and broken by the wind. If the world to me bowed Still humbly I'd plead with you Joe Mason shouted something but the wind carried his voice away. I could see his mouth moving but there was no sound. Both of them kept yelling and trying to tell me something. And then I heard it again. ‘Your mate's dead Rangi’. The words were still muffled by the wind. At first I thought they were joking. Making fun of the boss. Calling him ‘your mate’ as we sometimes did. I looked down, their faces were drawn and serious. ‘What a thing to say’, I thought. ‘Even about old Tom’. Tom was the boss's name. Thomas James Wilkly, to be correct. They were right beneath the pole now. ‘Honest Rangi’, Arthur Maker said, ‘Jack's dead. He fell off the ladder. Broke his neck I think. He's over there’,—pointing in the direction of the main line connection—‘Do you want to see him?’ I knew they were not joking then. Suddenly, for the first time, I was aware of the height I was at. And in my hands the wires felt alive and jagged. ‘Jack!’ I said. ‘Yes. The boss's gone into town to get the cops. He said not to touch anything till he got back. He shouldn't be long now. Do you want to go over and see?’ I did not answer. Then after a while I said ‘No’. I did not want to see Jack now lying there in a heap over the ground cold and wet and still. And not really Jack Kahui any more.