The Power and the Glory

by Graham Greene

The lieutenant stood there like a little dark menacing question-mark in the sun: his attitude seemed to indicate that he wouldn’t even accept the benefit of shade from a foreigner. But he had used a hammock; that, Captain Fellows supposed, he must have regarded as a requisition. ‘Have a glass of gaseosa?’ ‘No. No, thank you.’ ‘Well,’ Captain Fellows said, ‘I can’t offer you anything else, can I? It’s treason to drink spirits.’ The lieutenant suddenly turned on his heel as if he could no longer bear the sight of them and strode away along the path which led to the village: his gaiters and his pistol-holster winked in the sunlight. When he had gone some way they could see him pause and spit; he had not been discourteous, he had waited till he supposed that they no longer watched him before he got rid of his hatred and contempt for a different way of life, for ease, safety, toleration, and complacency. ‘I wouldn’t want to be up against him,’ Captain Fellows said. ‘Of course he doesn’t trust us.’ ‘They don’t trust anyone.’ ‘I think,’ Coral said, ‘he smelt a rat.’ ‘They smell them everywhere.’